QueenOfChaos

Alfie’s Valentine

It was February 11th, 1924, three days before Valentine’s Day, and you sat on the edge of the armchair, with your hands clasped tightly in your lap, watching your husband. Alfie lounged in his favourite leather chair, with a glass of whiskey balanced on one knee.

You’d been working up to this conversation all evening. Valentine’s Day had always been a silly, secret fancy of yours, even before you married him. As a girl, you’d dreamed of red roses and chocolates. Now, as Mrs Solomons, you wanted just a taste of that whimsy.

“Alfie,” you began, carrying the pleading note you knew he pretended to despise. “Love, have you thought about what we might do for Valentine’s Day? It’s only a few days away.”

He didn’t look up from the newspaper spread across his lap. “Valentine’s Day?” he rumbled. “What’s that got to do with us, then?”

You leaned forward, placing your elbows on your knees. “Come on, Alfie. We could make a night of it. Dinner out, perhaps? Or I could cook something special here. Maybe even a little gift exchange. It doesn’t have to be grand… Just something to mark the day.”

He folded the paper and set it aside on the side table. His eyes finally met yours, and you could see the amusement flickering in them. “A gift exchange? For Valentine’s Day? Nah, nah, pet. That ain’t our style, is it?”

“But why not?” you pressed, sliding closer until your knee brushed his leg. “It’s just one day. A bit of fun. I saw these lovely chocolates in the window of that new shop down the avenue, they were shaped like hearts! Or flowers. Roses, Alfie. You know I love roses.”

He took a long sip of his drink, as if he needed the alcohol to go through this conversation. “Roses, yeah? And what, a card with some soppy verse? ‘Roses are red, violets are blue, I run a bleedin’ distillery and so do you’?”

You reached out and laid your hand on his arm, feeling the wool of his vest beneath your fingers. “It’s not about the soppiness. It’s about celebrating us. You and me, against the world, remember when you used to say that?”

Alfie set his glass down with a clink and leaned back, putting deliberate space between your enthusiasm and his reluctance. “Celebratin’ us? Right. Well, I celebrate us every bloody day, don’t I? Wakin’ up next to you, sharin’ a meal, shaggin’ you every night, that’s celebration enough for any man. Don’t need some frivolous holiday cooked up by the Christians to tell me when to show my love.”

There it was, you knew it was coming… the moment he made this about religion. “I know it’s a Christian thing,” you said quietly, squeezing his arm. “I know it doesn’t mean anything to you, Alfie. But this… this is just a day for lovers. It doesn’t have to be religious. It could be ours. Something we make our own.”

He raised one brow, piercing you with his gaze. “Ours, eh? Nah, love. Valentine’s Day is a con, innit? Shopkeepers rubbin’ their hands, sellin’ overpriced tat to fools who think a box of sweets proves their love.”

“But it means something to me,” you said, raising your voice just enough to betray the frustration. You stood and began to pace in front of the fire, trying to burn off the ache building inside your chest. “Not the con part, maybe, but the gesture. The thought that you’d go out of your way just for me. Because you love me. Isn’t that what marriage is? Doing things that don’t make sense to you, but make the other person happy?”

Alfie watched you move, his expression softening for the briefest moment before it hardened again. “Love you? Course I do. More than life itself, yeah? But I show it my way. Remember that necklace last month? The sapphire one? That wasn’t for no holiday, that was ’cause I saw it and thought of your eyes. Or when I closed the bakery early to take you to the seaside? That’s love, pet. Real love. Not this manufactured bollocks.”

You stopped pacing and knelt in front of him, taking both his rough hands in yours. “I remember all of it, Alfie. And I cherish every moment. But why can’t we have both? The everyday love and the special days? I’m not asking for the moon. Just one evening. A candlelit dinner, maybe a card.”

He sighed and brushed his thumbs over your knuckles. “You’re a persistent one, ain’t ya? Always have been. That’s why I married you, keeps me on my toes.” He paused, searching for your eyes. “But no, love. I can’t do it. Not Valentine’s Day. It’s not just frivolous, it’s… It’s not us. I don’t need a calendar tellin’ me when to be romantic. And frankly, I ain’t bowin’ to some saint’s day that ain’t mine. If I start now, where’s it end? Easter eggs next? Bloody Christmas?”

The words landed like stones. You felt the disappointment, yet you understood. Alfie didn’t bend on principles, and maybe asking him to celebrate a holiday that clashed with who he was felt like asking him to be someone else.

“Alfie, please,” you whispered, your voice cracking even as you tried to keep it steady. “For me. Just because you love me. It would mean the world.”

He lifted your hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to your fingers. His beard tickled your skin in that familiar way. For one heartbeat, you thought he might give in, but then he shook his head. “No, pet. I love you too much to pretend. We’ll make our own days, yeah? Better ones.”

You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat, and stood. Valentine’s Day would come and go without fanfare in the Solomons house.

The morning of February 14th arrived quickly. You woke up that morning, and for a moment you lay still, staring at the ceiling, expecting the day to pass like any other. No roses. No chocolates. No soppy gestures.

Then the door creaked, you turned your head, and there he was. Alfie was balancing a wooden tray as if it might fall if he moved too fast. Two slices of bread toasted unevenly, a smear of butter already melting into the craters, a couple of fried eggs, and a mug of tea.

He stood at the foot of the bed in his vest and braces, with his sleeves rolled to the elbows, looking like a man who’d just lost a very personal war.

“Happy fuckin’ Valentine’s Day,” he ground out through clenched teeth.

You sat up so fast the blankets pooled around your waist. “You changed your mind.”

He didn’t answer right away, just set the tray across your lap with exaggerated care. Then he straightened, crossed his arms over his chest, and glared down at you, not angry, exactly, but with the exasperation that only came out when he’d done something he swore he never would.

“I have an infuriatin’, stubborn wife,” he said, each word bitten off. “Who happens to be so bloody good at gettin’ under my skin that I wake up at five like some lovesick fool and stand over a stove burnin’ eggs because apparently that’s what it takes to shut her up for five minutes.”

Your mouth parted, and a laugh bubbled up before you could stop it. “Alfie—”

“Don’t,” he warned, pointing one finger at you. “Don’t start with the eyes and the smile. I’m already regrettin’ every second of this.”

But he wasn’t done, he turned, reached behind him to the dresser where he’d clearly hidden everything, and came back with three things: First, a small bunch of red roses, six of them, the stems wrapped in brown paper. Second, a flat red box tied with gold ribbon, inside there were the heart-shaped chocolates you’d pointed out in the window two weeks ago. And third, a card. You opened it with trembling fingers.

To my wife,

who is maddening, beautiful, relentless, and somehow still the only person I’d ever do this for.

Don’t get used to it.

Happy Valentine’s Day, pet.

— Alfie

You looked up at him with stinging eyes. He shoved his hands into his pockets, hunching his shoulders like he wanted to disappear into the floorboards.

“Here’s all you wanted,” he muttered. “The fuckin’ roses. The chocolates. The card with the soppy words. Happy now?”

You didn’t answer with words, you set the tray carefully on the bedside table and then launched yourself at him. He caught you with a grunt and a half-laugh, as you wrapped arms and legs around him like you meant to climb inside his skin. Alfie carried you both back onto the mattress, making the bed groan under the sudden weight.

He landed on his back with you straddling his hips, your nightgown rucked up around your thighs, and he took his big hands automatically to your waist.

“You bastard,” you whispered against his mouth, crying as you laughed. “You absolute, beautiful bastard.”

“Language,” he rumbled, but his voice had gone rough in that way that always made you clench your thighs. “Thought we were bein’ romantic.”

You kissed him then, greedily, and Alfie kissed you back like a man who’d been starving for it, sliding one band up your spine to fist in your hair, clamping the other possessively over your ass.

You broke away just long enough to yank his vest over his head. The braces snapped against his shoulders as you shoved them down. His chest hair was coarse under your palms. You dragged your nails lightly down it, watching the way his stomach flexed.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he breathed when you rocked your hips down against the growing hardness beneath his trousers. “Slow down, woman, or this’ll be over before it starts.”

“No,” you said, already fumbling with his buttons. “I’m not waiting. Gonna give you your gift right now.”

You freed his thick cock, already leaking at the tip and making your mouth water at the sight. Next thing, you shoved your nightgown higher and moved your underwear to the side. With trembling hands, you lined him up and sank in one slow slide, the stretch making you both groan.

Alfie’s head fell back against the pillow. “Christ almighty.”

You braced your hands on his broad chest, lifting yourself until only the swollen head of his cock stretched your entrance, before sinking back down in one long glide. You savoured every inch of him, dragging along your slick walls, the way he throbbed inside your cunt, pulsing against that spot that made your thighs tremble.

Alfie’s breath hitched, a low “fuck” rumbling from his chest as he jerked his hips up involuntarily, chasing more friction from your tight walls. Emboldened, you picked up the pace, moving faster and harder, slamming down with rolls of your hips that ground your clit against his pelvis on every thrust.

He roamed his hands possessively, squeezing your breasts, flicking his thumbs over your stiff nipples until you whimpered, then sliding down to grip your waist, your hips, finally clamping onto your ass with force. He spread you open wider, digging his fingers into the flesh as he guided you, urging you to fuck him deeper, like he couldn’t get enough of the way your cunt clenched around him.

He thrust up brutally to meet every downward slam, driving himself impossibly deeper. His heavy balls were smacking against your ass, and the slick squelch of your drenched pussy taking him again and again echoed in the room.

“Look at me,” he growled when you fluttered your eyes shut. You obeyed. “You wanted Valentine’s Day,” he rasped. “This what you had in mind, eh? Ridin’ your husband like he owes you money?”

“Yes,” you gasped, grinding down harder, chasing that spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. “God—yes—”

He sat up suddenly, banding his arms around your back and crashing his mouth into yours. The new angle drove him deeper, and you cried out against his lips. Alfie slipped one hand between your bodies, finding your clit and circling it with this thumb.

“Come on, pet,” he murmured against your throat, grazing your pulse with his teeth. “Give it to me. Let me feel you.”

You shuddered, clenching and soaking him as you shook apart on top of him. He followed seconds later, a curse tearing from his throat as he emptied himself inside you, jerking and holding you down so tightly you’d probably have bruises tomorrow.

For a long minute, you stayed like that, with your foreheads pressed together and your hearts hammering in tandem. Then he huffed a laugh. “Happy fuckin’ Valentine’s Day,” Alfie muttered again, but this time there was no teeth-clenching.

You smiled against his mouth and kissed him softly. “Happy Valentine’s Day, Alfie.”

Tommy’s Valentine

You stepped onto the porch after a long shift, with your keys already in hand. The porch light was on, and there he was. Tommy sat on the top step, a small bouquet of grocery-store daisies gripped in one scarred fist. His hoodie was up, but not enough to hide the fresh split above his left eyebrow, blood already drying in a thin line down his temple.

You stopped short. “What are you doing here, Tommy?”

He looked up with eyes red-rimmed. He stood slowly, and held the flowers out between you like an apology.

“I missed you,” he said. “I fucked up. I know I fucked up.”

The tension from last week still sat between you. Him pulling away again, disappearing for three days after swearing he was all in, after whispering things against your neck that made you believe it this time. You’d finally said enough, and this time you’d meant it.

You stared at the flowers, then at the blood on his face. “You’re bleeding.”

“Training,” he muttered, touching the cut like he’d only just remembered it was there. “Caught an elbow. It’s nothing.”

It wasn’t nothing, you could see the swelling starting. You sighed, already losing the battle with yourself. “Come inside. Let me clean that before you bleed all over the steps.”

He followed without a word. You flicked on the kitchen light, pointed to the chair at the table. He sat, still holding the flowers like they were evidence he was trying.

You grabbed the first-aid kit from under the sink, wet a clean cloth with warm water, and stood between his knees. He tipped his head back obediently while you dabbed at the cut. 

“Hold still,” you said, as your fingers shook a little.

He didn’t. His hands found your waist, first gentle, then tight, digging his fingers in like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go, like he couldn’t help himself, he needed to touch you.

“Tommy—”

He pulled you closer in one rough motion, lifted you, and sat you across his lap so you straddled him on the chair, with your knees bracketing his hips. 

“No,” you said, placing your palms flat against his chest to push back. “We need to talk.”

He looked up at you with desperate eyes. “Then let’s talk.”

You felt him, pressing his hard and insisting length through his sweats, right against you. The heat flooded your face all at once.

“Talk,” he repeated, as he dragged you forward in a slow grind. The thick ridge of his cockhead caught right against your clit. “What do you have to say?”

“I can’t talk with your… thing against me,” you snapped, higher than you meant it to be.

A ghost of his old smirk flickered, but it died fast. He didn’t let go. If anything, his grip tightened, sliding his thumb under the hem of your work shirt.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quieter now. “For disappearing. For making you think I didn’t want this, or that I don’t want you. I panicked. Same old shit. Thought if I stayed gone long enough, you’d be better off.” He swallowed. “I was wrong. I’m always fucking wrong about that.”

“You can’t keep doing this,” you whispered. “One day you’re all in, the next you’re a ghost. I can’t keep waiting for the next time you disappear.”

You slid off his lap, feeling your legs unsteady on the kitchen floor. The heat was still buzzing between your thighs from where he'd been pressed against you, but the anger simmered in your chest.

You crossed your arms tight over your shirt, glaring down at him in the chair. "I'm still pissed at you, Tommy. Don't think a sorry and some flowers fix everything."

He leaned back, with that infuriating half-smile tugging at his busted lip, roaming his eyes over you like he couldn't help it. "You're adorable when you're angry."

You narrowed your eyes. "You should really watch what you say right now, because I'm this close to kicking you out." You held up your thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "Don't push it."

Tommy's smile faded, but his gaze didn't waver. He reached out before you could step back, clamping his hands onto your hips with his strong grip. You gasped, moving your hands to his shoulders on instinct, but he didn't give you a chance to fight it. He pulled you forward in one smooth motion, lifting you effortlessly and settling you back onto his lap, straddling him again. His thighs were solid under you, and you felt him twitch against your core.

"Tommy—" you started, but he cut you off, sliding his hands up your sides, brushing his thumbs over the underside of your breasts through your shirt.

"Let me take you out for Valentine's. Dinner, whatever you want. Let me make it right."

Before you could answer, his mouth found your neck. His lips moved softly at first, then insistently, trailing open-mouthed kisses along the column of your throat. You tilted your head back without meaning to, a shiver racing down your spine as he grazed his teeth over your pulse point. Tommy rocked his hips up against you, the hard length of him grinding right where you needed it most. 

"I'm tired," you managed to say with a breathy voice. "I don't wanna go out. And I don't wanna think about how you're gonna disappear tomorrow as if none of this happened."

He paused, tightening his hands on your hips, holding you flush against him. "Let me prove it," he said, locking his eyes onto yours when he pulled back just enough to meet your gaze. "How much I'm in this. How much I want you. No disappearing. I swear."

His grip shifted, sliding one hand down to palm your ass, spreading you wider so he could grind deeper, the head of his cock catching and nudging your clothed clit on every pass now.

You searched his face, finding the raw honesty there that he so rarely let show. Your resolve cracked, just a little, but enough. "Tommy..."

You slid off his lap again and turned away fast, too fast, because the tears were already burning behind your eyes, and you didn’t want him to see them yet. 

“Hey—” His voice cracked on the single word. He stood up quickly. “What’s going on? Talk to me. Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head because your throat felt too tight to answer. You walked straight into the kitchen, opened the junk drawer where you’d shoved everything you didn’t want to look at for the last forty-eight hours. Your fingers closed around the slim white stick. You pulled it out, held it behind your back for a second like it might burn you, then turned.

Tommy stood in the doorway, his eyes wide and searching your face. You held the test out between you, the little pink plus sign stark against the plastic.

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” you said, and your voice came out small and wrecked.

He stared at it. Didn’t move or blink. “From when’s this?” he asked finally, barely above a whisper.

“Couple days ago.” You swallowed. “I missed my period. Felt… different. Nauseous in the mornings, tired like I’ve never been tired before. So I bought one on the way home from the store last Thursday. It was positive.” You let out a shaky breath. “I’ve been sitting with it since then.”

Tommy’s face did something you’d never seen before, it crumpled. His eyes went glassy, he took one step, then another, until he was close enough to take the test from your fingers. He looked at it again, brushing his thumb over the little window like he needed to feel it was real.

You watched his throat work, the way his jaw flexed and released, the way his breathing hitched. Then he dropped to one knee and pressed his forehead to your stomach, both hands sliding to your hips like he was afraid to hold you too tight. A sound came out of him that was half a sob, and half a laugh.

“We’re gonna have a baby,” he said against your shirt. His voice cracked on every word.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, holding on. Tears slipped down your cheeks now. “Are we? Or are you gonna disappear again?”

He went still, then he pulled back just enough to look up at you. His eyes were red and wet, but steady. “No,” he said. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You searched his face. “You say that now. But—”

“But I’m here now. And I’m staying. You hear me? I’m staying.”

You wanted to believe him so badly it hurt. He cupped your face with both hands, wiping at the tears you couldn’t stop with his thumbs. “I’m gonna be here for every doctor’s appointment. Every late-night craving. Every time you’re scared, or pissed, or whatever. I’m gonna be here when the kid’s screaming at three a.m. and when they’re graduating and every shitty, beautiful day in between. I swear it.”

A fresh sob caught in your throat. “You can’t just swear it, Tommy. You have to do it.”

“I will.” He pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you so tight you could feel his heartbeat slamming against yours. “I’m not perfect. I’m probably gonna fuck up a hundred times. But disappearing? That’s done. I’m not losing you. I’m not losing this.”

You buried your face in his hoodie, breathing him in, and he kissed the top of your head, then your temple, then lower until his lips found yours. The kiss was slow, salty with both your tears, full of everything he’d never known how to say before.

He glanced down at your stomach, still the same, and something soft crossed his face. He placed one careful hand there. “Hey, kid,” he murmured. So quiet you almost didn’t hear it. “I’m your dad. And I’m already sorry for all the times I’m gonna suck at this. But I’m gonna try. Real hard.”

You laughed through the tears. Tommy looked back up at you. “I love you,” he said, like it was the easiest thing he’d ever said. “I should’ve said it more. I’m saying it now. I love you. And I love this kid already.”

You pressed your hand over his on your stomach. “I love you too,” you whispered. “Don’t make me regret believing you.”

“Let me show you how much I mean it.”

He didn't wait for more. In one fluid move, he lifted you like you weighed nothing. You wrapped your legs around his waist on reflex, and he turned, laying you back across the kitchen table with surprising gentleness. The wood was cool against your back through your shirt, but before you realized, Tommy's hands were already at your waistband, hooking his fingers into your pants and underwear, tugging them down in one swift pull.

You lifted your hips to help him, and he dropped to his knees between your legs, nudging your thighs apart with his broad shoulders. His eyes darkened as he looked at your pussy, exposed and waiting, and he let out a low groan that vibrated through his chest. "Fuck, you're beautiful," he muttered, more to himself than you, before leaning in.

“You’re gonna be such a good mom. I already know it.” He nuzzled the soft mound of your pussy, inhaling like he couldn’t get enough of you. “This kid’s so fucking lucky already. Got you for a mother. Got you growing them safe inside you right now.”

His breath ghosted over your inner thigh first, making you squirm. He pressed a kiss there, then another higher up, his stubble scraping deliciously against your sensitive skin. You reached down, threading your fingers into his short hair, but he caught your hand, pinning it gently to the table beside you. "Let me," he said, his voice muffled against your thigh. "Just let me."

You nodded, and he rewarded you with his mouth, finally, right where you ached. Tommy flicked his tongue out, flat and broad, licking a slow stripe up your slit, tasting you like he was starving. You arched off the table, a moan escaping before you could bite it back. Tommy hummed in approval, the vibration sending jolts straight through you, and then he licked you again, slower this time, savoring every inch.

He settled in then, without any rush, like he had all night to prove his point. Tommy sealed his lips over your clit, sucking it gently at first, then harder, circling his tongue with deliberate patterns that had your toes curling. One hand slid up your thigh, digging his fingers in to hold you open, while the other teased at your entrance, circling your hole, and pressing just the tip of his digits inside before pulling back, making you whine.

"Tommy, please," you gasped, bucking his hips toward his face.

He glanced up, meeting your eyes over the plane of your body, while his mouth was still working you relentlessly. "I've got you," he said against your folds, the words buzzing against your clit. Then he dove deeper, thrusting his tongue inside you, fucking you with it in rhythmic strokes. His nose nudged your clit with every push, and the dual sensation was slowly beginning to build your orgasm.

“You did this,” he said, voice muffled against you. “You made me a father. Me.” He sucked your clit harder for a second, making your hips jerk. “And I’m never gonna forget it. Never gonna let you down again.”

You gripped the edge of the table with your free hand until your knuckles hurt, as he alternated from delving his tongue deep, then retreating it to lap at your clit, sucking with his lips closed around it until you saw stars. Tommy added a finger, then two, curling them just right to hit that spot inside you that made your vision blur. His pace was unhurried but intense, pumping his fingers and flicking his tongue faster now, building you up inch by inch.

Sweat beaded on your skin, making tour shirt cling to your body. "Oh god, Tommy! Don't stop—"

He didn't, if anything, he went harder, twisting his fingers, pressing his tongue flat, and dragging it up before swirling around your clit again. The sounds were obscene, his low groans, and loud slurps mixing with your whimpers. 

Your thighs trembled around his head as the pressure built, higher and higher, until you shattered. The orgasm crashed over you, making you lift your hips off the table and tear a cry from your throat. Tommy didn't pull away, he worked you through it, gentling his movements but not stopping until you’d drawn out every last shudder. 

You collapsed back, as he finally eased off, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs while you caught your breath. He rose slowly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, looking down at you sprawled on the table. "Believe me now?" he asked.

You managed a weak laugh, sitting up on your  elbows. "Maybe. But you're not done proving it yet."

Johnny’s Valentine

The sun had dipped below the horizon, leaving the sky in a pink and bruised purple. You waited on the front steps of your small house, arms crossed, wearing a black dress with red flowers, and a leather jacket zipped tight.

You heard the deep rumble growing closer. Johnny’s headlight sliced through the dusk first. The red bike rolled up and stopped at the curb. He swung his leg over the seat, his hair looked wind-tousled already, strands falling across his forehead. He pulled the cigarette from his lips and looked straight at you.

“Been freezin’ out here long?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Long enough.”

He gave you that small half-smirk, crushed the cigarette under his boot, stepped closer, and lifted the spare helmet from the sissy bar. Johnny set it on your head himself, careful as he buckled the strap. He brushed the edge of your jaw and lingered a second longer than was necessary.

He climbed back on, kicked the starter, and the engine barked awake beneath him. You swung your leg over, settled behind, wrapped your arms around his waist, and pressed your chest to his back. Even through the layers, you felt the heat of him. He reached back once, squeezed your knee, and then both hands found the grips.

“Hold tight, sweetheart.”

The town slipped away in smears of light. Johnny rode fast on the empty roads, leaning the bike into gentle curves so your body followed his without thought.

After twenty minutes or so, he slowed, flicked on the high beam, and turned off the pavement onto a narrow gravel lane you’d never seen before. The bike jounced over ruts, and you clung tighter. 

The trees opened, and the river appeared. Johnny coasted to a stop in a small, cleared patch beside the bank. 

He killed the engine and stayed seated a moment, then patted your thigh twice. You slid off, and Johnny followed, swung the saddlebags down, and set them on the ground.

You watched him unpack: a blanket first, shaken out and spread across the grass. Then a small cooler and a brown paper sack. 

“Sit,” he said, nodding at the blanket.

You dropped down cross-legged. He settled beside you, close enough that your shoulder brushed his. He opened the cooler and got two beers out, twisted both caps off with his lighter, and handed one to you. 

He tapped his bottle to yours. “Happy Valentine’s”

You both drank, and for a while you just sat, watching the river slide past. Johnny dug into the paper sack and pulled out two foil-wrapped sandwiches still warm.

“Benny’s lady made these,” he said, almost sheepish. “Told me if I was gonna do Valentine’s, I better not show up with some gas-station crap.”

You laughed and ate the sandwich slowly, trading bites, brushing your fingers together. When the sandwiches were gone ,he pulled you in closer, settling his arm heavily across your shoulders. You leaned into him, laying your head against his chest. 

“Cold?” he asked after a while.

“A little.”

He shrugged out of his jacket without a word and draped it over your lap. It carried his warmth and his smell, leather and cigarette smoke. You pulled it tighter around you.

“Better?” he said.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He finished his beer, set the empty bottle carefully in the grass, and then he turned to you. One rough hand came up and cupped the side of your face,  tracing the corner of your mouth.

“Happy Valentine’s, darlin’,” he said, almost quieter than the river.

You didn’t answer with words. You leaned in and kissed him. He slid his fingers into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen it. A low sound rumbled in his throat, and when you finally pulled back, you were both breathing harder, pressing your foreheads together, noses brushing.

He reached into the saddlebag again, and his hand came out with a small black velvet pouch. He tipped the contents into his palm: A thin silver chain, hanging from it was a tiny “J” charm.

“Didn’t want nothin’ flashy,” he muttered, suddenly looking almost awkward. “This way, everybody will know you’re mine.”

You stared at the little “J” resting in his callused hand.

“Johnny…”

He cleared his throat. “You gonna let me put it on you or what?”

You turned so he could fasten the clasp. His fingers were careful and warm against the back of your neck. When the chain settled against your skin, it felt right, like it belonged there.

He looked at it for a long moment, then at you. Something soft flickered in his eyes. “Looks good,” he said simply.

You touched the charm with your fingertips. “Yeah. It does.”

The river kept its steady murmur while the moon climbed higher. You sat pressed against Johnny’s side, you’d been kissing on and off for what felt like forever, lazy at first, then hungrier. Each time you pulled back to breathe, he’d look at you with those blue eyes, brushing your lower lip with his thumb like he was memorizing the shape of it.

He shifted, turning more fully toward you, sliding onto the back of your neck, threading his fingers into your hair. He tugged gently, not roughly, just enough to tilt your head the way he wanted. Then his mouth was on yours again, deeper this time.

You made a small sound against his lips, as you found the front of his shirt, bunching the soft cotton under his open jacket. He groaned, pulling you closer until you were half in his lap, straddling one of his thighs.

His free hand settled on your hip, and he broke the kiss long enough to drag his mouth along your jaw, down the side of your throat. When his teeth grazed the spot just under your ear, you gasped, tightening your fingers in his shirt.

“Johnny…”

He paused, his lips remaining against your pulse. “Yeah?”

You swallowed, feeling your heart hammering so hard you were sure he could feel it. “I’m just… We haven’t…”

He lifted his head, searching for your eyes in the moonlight. “I know,” he said simply. “We don’t have to do anythin’ you ain’t ready for.”

You shook your head quickly. “I want to. I just…” You licked your lips, suddenly shy even after months of this, rides together, late-night talks in diner parking lots. “I’ve wanted to for a while. Just… first times with someone are always important.”

Something softened in his face, and he cupped your cheek with his rough palm. “Then we go as slow as you need,” he murmured. “Or we stop. Your call, sweetheart.”

You searched his eyes for a long moment. Then you leaned in and kissed him again, when you pulled back, you whispered against his mouth, “I don’t want to stop.”

He exhaled through his nose, a sound that was almost a laugh. Then he kissed you harder, hungrier, as a dam that had finally cracked. Johnny slid both hands under your jacket now, pulling your dress down inch by inch until the cool air hit your exposed breasts. He palmed one breast fully, brushing over the stiff peak in a lazy circle that made your back arch off the blanket. 

He eased you down onto the blanket, and he followed, bracing himself on one forearm so his weight didn’t crush you. His fingertips traced the underside of your breasts, making you arch into his touch, and he made an appreciative sound as he lowered his head, kissing a slow path down your throat, your collarbone, the swell of your breast. He took a nipple into his mouth without warning, flicking his tongue, then flattening to lap broadly. 

Johnny switched sides, grazing his teeth over the stiff peak, and then soothing your nipple with another long and filthy lick. Spit glistened on your breasts when he finally pulled back, strings of it connecting his lips to your nipple for a second before snapping.

“You’re so fuckin’ sensitive. Bet I could make you cum just from this if I kept goin’.”

You bit your lip, but you couldn’t stop the small laugh that escaped. He grinned and went back to what he was doing. Johnny slid a hand down your lower stomach, and you lifted your hips without thinking. He tugged your underwear down your legs, dropping them somewhere on the grass.

Johnny paused, flicking his eyes to yours. “Still good?”

You nodded fast. “Yeah. Just… cold.”

He leaned down, kissed the inside of your knee, then higher. “I’ll warm you up.”

He settled between your legs, and his mouth found you, with slow licks at first, exploratory, learning every hitch of your breath, every small sound you tried to swallow. When he sucked gently on your clit your jerked your hips, and he pressed one of his big hands flat against your lower belly, holding you still while he worked you with steady strokes of his tongue.

“Stay still, baby,” he murmured against you, the vibration of his words hummed right through your swollen clit. “Lemme take care of this pretty pussy the way she deserves.”

His tongue went back to work, flattening to lap from your entrance all the way up, then curling the tip to circle your clit in teasing rings. Every time you tried to buck he pressed down harder on your stomach, the pressure somehow making everything feel sharper.

“Johnny—oh god! It… It feels amazing.”

He pulled back only long enough to speak, his lips shiny with you. “You taste so fuckin’ sweet when you’re this close. Gonna make you cum all over my tongue, sweetheart. Then I’m gonna slide in deep and feel how tight you get right after.”

He dove back in without waiting for an answer. This time he sealed his mouth over your clit, sucking harder, pulsing his lips in a steady rhythm while the flat of his tongue flicked fast underneath. The hand on your belly slid lower, pushing two thick fingers inside you without warning, stretching you open. He curled them immediately, hooking right against that perfect spot, and pumped them in time with the suction on your clit.

You threaded your fingers through his hair, not pulling, just holding on. The pleasure built slowly, until your thighs started to shake. He didn’t let up, and when you finally came, it hit you like an overwhelming wave, your back arching off the blanket as you gasped his name.

He kissed his way back up your body while you trembled through the aftershocks of your climax, just soft open-mouthed kisses across your stomach, your ribs, your tits. When he reached your mouth, he kissed you deeply.

You reached for his belt with shaking hands. He helped you until his jeans were shoved down just enough. He was hard, his length thick against your thigh, leaving a streak of pre-cum there. You wrapped your fingers around him, and he hissed through his teeth, dropping his forehead to yours.

“Fuck, baby…”

You stroked him slowly, watching his face, the way he clenched his jaw, the way he fluttered his eyes half-closed. He caught your wrist after a minute. “Gonna make me cum if you keep that up,” he muttered.

You smiled, a little wicked despite the nerves still fluttering in your stomach. “Then get inside me already.”

Johnny huffed a laugh and shifted, settling between your thighs again. He braced himself on one arm and used the other hand to guide himself, nudging the blunt head against you.

“Tell me if it’s too much.”

You nodded, your breath hitching. Johnny pushed in inch by inch. There was a stretch, and a faint burn, he was bigger than the guys you’d been with before. But he went so slow, pausing every few seconds to kiss you, to murmur against your mouth, “You’re doin’ so good, sweetheart… so fuckin’ good…” so the burning never crossed into pain. When his cock was fully seated inside you, he stilled, breathing hard.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You feel…” He didn’t finish, just kissed you again, letting you adjust.

After a minute, you rolled your hips experimentally, that seemed to be the signal he needed. He started moving with measured thrusts that dragged against every sensitive place inside you. You wrapped your legs around his waist, digging your feet into the small of his back to urge him deeper inside your hole. The blanket bunched under you, the night was cold, but you were burning up everywhere you touched him.

He found a rhythm, steady without being rushed. Every time he bottomed out, you gasped, and every time he pulled almost all the way out, you whimpered at the loss. He slipped one hand between you, circling your clit with his thumb in time with his thrusts. The dual sensation made your head spin.

“Johnny—fuck—”

“Yeah? Right there?”

You could only nod, all words gone. He sped up just enough, still controlled and careful, but the angle shifted, and suddenly every stroke hit the perfect spot inside your walls. You clenched around him, and he cursed under his breath, his hips stuttering for the first time.

“Gonna cum,” you managed to say. “Johnny—Gonna cum again!”

“Do it,” he rasped. “Let me feel you clenchin’ around me.”

You did, harder than before, your whole body locking up as the pleasure ripped through you. He fucked you through it, drawing your climax out until you were shaking and gasping against his neck.

When the aftershocks finally eased, he pulled out, the sudden emptiness made you clench around nothing. Johnny groaned at the sight of you, your legs still spread, your dress bunched up, your pussy glistening and flushed from him stretching you open.

He wrapped one hand around his cock, still slick with you, and stroked himself hard and fast. His eyes stayed locked on where he’d just been buried inside you, watching the way your body fluttered like it was still trying to pull him back in. “Fuck… look at you,” he rasped. “All fucked-out and drippin’ for me.”

Two more rough pumps and he came, thick ropes spilling across your stomach. The first stripe landed just below your navel, the next higher, streaking over your belly button. He kept groaning your name, jerking his hips with each spurt like he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. 

Eventually, he lifted his head, kissed you softly, then reached into the saddlebag for a rag he always carried. He cleaned you up carefully, almost tenderly, before tugging your dress back into place and zipping your jacket with clumsy fingers.

You caught his wrist before he could pull away. “Come here.”

He did, settling beside you on the blanket and pulling you against his chest. His heartbeat was still fast under your ear. After a while, he spoke. “You okay?”

You nodded against him. “More than okay.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “Good.”

You stayed like that until the cold finally won. He helped you up, packed everything away, and when you climbed back on the bike, he wrapped your arms tighter around his waist than usual, like he didn’t want any space between you. You pressed your cheek to his back and closed your eyes. For the first time in a long time, the night felt exactly right.

Harry’s Valentine

You woke to the sound of knocking, followed by the murmur of male voices. The clock on the nightstand read 7:42 a.m. Valentine’s Day, and as you expected it, the bed beside you was empty, the sheets cool where Harry should have been. You rubbed sleep from your eyes, pulled on your silk robe, and padded barefoot toward the front door.

When you opened it, the fragrance hit you right away, almost making you cough. Three men in dark suits stood there, with their arms loaded with floral arrangements. Roses in every shade from red to pink, lilies, peonies, orchids, probably worth thousands of pounds. 

“Morning, Mrs. Da Souza,” the tallest one said. “Mr. Da Souza sends his regards. Where would you like these?”

You blinked. “All… of them?”

“There’s more in the van,” another added. “He said, ‘fill the house.’ We took that literally.”

Behind them, two more men were already hauling in additional deliveries. You stepped aside, dazed, and watched how this SWAT team of florists placed the  arrangements on every available surface: the entry table, the kitchen island, the living room coffee table. 

One of them handed you a small card before they left. Harry’s handwriting read: Not enough flowers in London to make up for the nights I wasn’t here. But it’s a start. –H

You pressed the card to your chest and followed the scent of coffee and something buttery toward the kitchen. A man was already there. He didn’t look up from the pan when you entered.

“Good morning, Mrs. Da Souza. I’m Chef Laurent. Mr. Da Souza arranged breakfast. Eggs Benedict with black truffle hollandaise, brioche French toast, fresh berries, and a side of caviar blinis.”

You stared at him, perplexed. “Harry… hired a chef? For breakfast?”

“He was very specific.” Laurent smiled. “Sit. It’ll be ready in seven minutes.”

You sank onto a stool and watched him plate everything with precision. The food arrived looking like art, you took one bite and closed your eyes. It was obscene how good it tasted.

Halfway through, your phone buzzed, and Harry’s name lit the screen.

You answered. “You sent an army of flowers and a chef. Are you dying or something?”

A chuckle came through, the one that still made your stomach flip after all those years. “Not yet, love. Just trying not to be a complete bastard for once.”

“You know this doesn’t fix everything.”

“I know.” His voice softened. “But it’s Valentine’s. Figured I’d start by overwhelming you. Dinner tonight. Seven. I’ll pick you up. Wear the black dress, the one with the low back. Please.”

He hung up before you could argue.

The rest of the day passed in a strange haze. The flowers perfumed every room. You wandered the house, touching the petals, rereading the card. 

At six-thirty, you slipped into the black dress he loved and added the earrings he had given you for your anniversary two years earlier. You stared at yourself in the mirror and wondered if tonight was just another meaningless attempt to make you forget about his absence, or if he actually meant it.

The doorbell rang at exactly seven.

You opened it to find him standing there in a charcoal suit. He looked tired, he always did lately, but his eyes softened when they landed on you. 

“You look…” He exhaled. “Fuck. You look unreal, babe.”

“You clean up nice yourself.” You stepped aside to let him in, but he didn’t move.

“Got something for you first.” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a slim velvet box. Inside was a delicate gold chain with a single diamond pendant. 

You let him clasp it around your neck, his fingers brushed your skin, and lingered a second longer than necessary.

“Thank you,” you whispered.

“Don’t thank me yet.” He offered his arm. “Car’s waiting.”

The restaurant was one you had only heard about. It was private, members-only. Inside, the lights were dim, and the ambiance was intimate. A single table waited for you in the back corner, with candles flickering, a bottle of your favorite wine already waiting for you. The maître d’ greeted Harry by name and disappeared.

Harry pulled your chair out and sat across from you. 

“I know I’m shit at this,” he said quietly once the wine was poured. “The job… it takes pieces. I forget dates. I forget what you need sometimes, even when you’re right there. And I hate it.”

You swirled the wine. “You think flowers and a fancy dinner change that?”

“No.” He leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. “But maybe it’s proof I still see you. That I still want this. Want us.”

The first course arrived, something delicate and fancy you couldn’t quite name. You ate in silence for a moment.

“I booked the whole place,” he said suddenly. “No one else here tonight. Just us. No interruptions. No phone. No Harrigans.”

You looked up. “You shut down a Michelin restaurant for Valentine’s?”

“Perks of knowing people.” He offered you a  small, crooked smile. “The owner owed me some favors.”

You laughed despite yourself. “Romantic.”

He reached across the table and took your hand, tracing circles over your knuckles. “I don’t know how to be good at being a husband. But I know I don’t want to lose you. Not to my own stupidity.”

When you finally left, the night air was cool. He walked you to the car with a hand at the small of your back. Fifteen minutes later, the car glided to a stop outside the house.

Inside, the house still smelled like a perfume bomb had exploded, the roses and gardenias and lilies were still crowding every surface.

He closed the front door with a click, shrugged out of his coat, and hung it on the hook. You kicked off your heels by the entry table.

No words came at first. Just his hand found the small of your back again, as he guided you toward the stairs. 

As soon as you both stepped inside the bedroom, you reached up and loosened the knot of his tie, sliding it free. 

He kissed you then, moving his mouth over yours as though he wanted to memorize the shape again. His tongue traced the seam of your lips until you opened for him. He cupped the back of your neck with one hand and slid the other down to grip your hip.

You walked backward toward the bed, his body crowding yours, guiding you. When the backs of your knees hit the mattress, he didn’t push, he just let you sink, following until he braced over you on one forearm, the other hand already working the zipper at the side of your dress.

The fabric pooled around your waist, and Harry paused, dragging his eyes over bare skin as though he hadn’t seen you in years instead of hours.

“Fuck,” he muttered, almost to himself. “You’re fucking beautiful.”

You tugged at his shirt buttons, feeling impatient now. “Less talking. More touching.”

A low laugh rumbled out of him. “You’re bossy tonight.”

He let you strip the shirt off him, until he was down to skin and the faint scars you knew by heart. You traced them with your fingertips, and he shivered.

Then, you felt his lips moving down your throat, slow drags of his lips and tongue, as his teeth grazed just enough to make you arch under him. When he reached the diamond pendant, he paused and pressed an open-mouthed kiss right above it.

“Looks good on you,” he murmured against your skin. “Knew it would.”

His hands were everywhere then, sliding the dress the rest of the way off, unhooking your bra with ease, palming your breasts until your nipples pebbled under his thumbs. You gasped when he took one in his mouth, sucking it slowly, flicking his tongue in lazy circles while his other hand slipped between your thighs.

He found you already soaked, your cunt slick and swollen, your lips parted and glistening under his fingers like you'd been aching for him all day. 

He dragged two fingers through your folds slowly, letting the wet sound fill the quiet room.

“Fuck, love,” he breathed. “This all for me?”

“Been thinking about you all day,” you admitted, your voice catching as he circled your clit with his fingers. “The way you looked at me in the restaurant. Seeing you is enough to get me like this.”

He lifted his head. “Good. Because I’ve been thinking about this since I left the house this morning.”

He slid two fingers inside you, curling them just right, still working slow circles over your clit with his thumb. You moaned, lifting your hips into his hand. He didn’t speed up, just kept that steady, maddening rhythm.

“Look at this mess you’ve made,” he murmured, almost reverent. “Been walking around with your pretty little cunt dripping all day.  Thinking about my cock splitting you open.”

You couldn’t answer, only whimpered, your thighs trembling as he added a third finger, stretching you wider, fucking into you with lazy thrusts that made your walls flutter and clench.

“That’s it,” he growled against the shell of your ear, catching the lobe between his teeth. “Let me feel how greedy you are. Squeeze my fingers.”

He crooked them harder, dragging over that spot that made your vision blur, while his other hand slid up to pinch your nipple sharp enough to sting. The combined sensation ripped another broken moan from your throat.

His fingers never faltered, pumping deep until your whole body shook, climaxing under his hands. He kept thrusting his fingers, prolonging your orgasm as much as he could. 

After you came down from your high, Harry stood long enough to shed the rest of his clothes, trousers, boxers and socks, then climbed back over you, settling between your thighs. His cock was heavy against your stomach, already leaking at the tip. You reached down, wrapped your fingers around him, stroking him steadily. He hissed, jerking his hips forward.

“Easy,” he warned, but there was no heat in it. “Been too long since I let myself have you like this.”

You guided him to your entrance, slick and ready to take your husband, your folds swollen and parted, glistening with how badly you needed him. He nudged the blunt head of his cock against you, spreading your wetness as you tilted your hips just enough to invite him in.

He pushed in agonisingly slow, letting you feel every ridge as he sank deeper. Your walls fluttered around the intrusion, trying to pull him in faster even as he held back. The stretch burned sweetly, until finally he seated himself to the hilt, his hips flush against yours, his balls pressed to your ass, buried so deep you swore you felt him in your throat.

“Missed this,” he dropped his forehead against yours. “Missed you.”

Then he started to move with slow rolls of his hips that dragged against every sensitive place inside you. Each thrust pulled a broken sound from your throat. He caught them with his mouth, kissing you messily, sliding your tongues together while he fucked you with that same measured pace.

His hand found your throat, not squeezing it, just holding, resting his thumb over your pulse. The other pinned your wrist above your head before he shifted his angle, grinding against your clit with every roll of his hips.

“Tell me,” he growled against your lips. “Tell me how it feels.”

“So good,” you gasped. “It’s perfect. You’re so fucking deep—Harry—”

He groaned your name like it was torn out of him, as he snapped forward a little harder, the careful rhythm fracturing into something rougher. You felt every thick inch of him drive deeper, stretching you open until the blunt head kissed that spot that made your vision spark.

You wrapped your legs tighter around his waist, locking your ankles at the small of his back, digging into the muscle to pull him in, shameless, urging him to bury himself to the hilt again and again. The angle changed, and he bottomed out with a slap of skin on skin that echoed in the quiet room.

“Cum for me,” he murmured, but you could hear the pleading edge in his voice. “Want to feel it. Want to feel you soak my cock.”

Harry slipped his hand between your legs again, finding your clit and rubbing circles while he kept thrusting.

“Take it,” he rasped against your lips. “Take every fucking inch, let me feel that pretty cunt milk me. Gonna cum so deep inside you you’ll be dripping me for hours.”

It hit you like a wave. You cried out, arching your back, raking your nails down his shoulders. He fucked you through it, drawing it out until you shook.

He didn’t stop. “Again,” he said, almost feral now. “Give me another one.”

You didn’t think you could, but he changed the angle just slightly, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. His fingers never left your clit, and the second orgasm built slower, until it crashed over you in rolling pulses. You clenched around him so hard he cursed.

You felt him throb inside you, impossibly harder, the vein along the underside pulsing against your walls with every erratic thrust. He was losing it.

“Fuck—love. I’m gonna— I’m cumming.”

He followed you right after, burying himself to the hilt, cumming with a broken groan against your throat. You felt him pulse inside you, hot ropes of cum that painted your insides, leaving you filled with his seed. 

He finally lifted his head, brushed damp hair from your face, and kissed you softly. “I meant what I said earlier. I’m not good at this, at being the husband you deserve. But I’m not ready to lose you. Not ever.”

You tilted your head up to look at him. “Then don’t disappear on me again.”

He exhaled, nodding once. “Trying.”

It wasn’t a promise, Harry didn’t make promises he couldn’t keep, but it was close enough.

Eddie’s Valentine

The kitchen smelled like burnt meat and slightly scorched garlic. You were out, running some errands, and Eddie had the place to himself. Well, himself and Venom.

Eddie wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his wrist and glared at the smoking pan on the stove. “You’re doing this on purpose. I told you to watch the steaks.”

A low rumble escaped the symbiote’s mouth. “And I said you’re being a cheap-ass.”

“I’m not being a cheap-ass. I’m being romantic. There’s a difference.”

“Romantic is a dinner reservation. Romantic is someone else doing the dishes. Romantic is not you sweating like a pig while we ruin steak number three.”

Eddie flipped the ribeye anyway, the outside was charcoal, but the inside was still mooing. He sighed, sounding defeated, and slid it onto a plate to rest.

“I wanted to do this myself,” he muttered, reaching for the red wine reduction he’d been cooking for twenty minutes. “She likes it when I try. She said that last week. ‘I like it when you try, Eddie.’ Direct quote.”

Venom rolled his wide white eyes with disdain. “She also likes steak that isn’t burnt. And a boyfriend who isn’t too broke to take her to that Italian place with the garlic bread she loves.”

“I’m not broke,” Eddie snapped, louder than he meant to. “I’m… financially responsible.”

“Financially responsible guys don’t get pussy.”

Eddie nearly dropped the saucepan. “Jesus, Venom.”

“I’m just saying because this—” a black tendril slithered out of Eddie’s shoulder, pointing at the wilted asparagus, the lumpy mashed potatoes, the sauce that had separated into oil slicks, “this is not screaming ‘I value your vagina.’”

Eddie swatted the tendril away, and it snapped back like a rubber band and smacked him in the cheek. “Stop that.”

Venom retreated the tendril, but not before knocking the salt shaker into the mashed potatoes. Eddie pinched the bridge of his nose so hard his eyes watered.

“Okay. Listen. We have forty minutes. Forty. I can salvage this. I’ve got the backup chicken in the fridge, I can pan-sear it, throw some of that fancy herb butter—”

A black appendage emerged from Eddie’s forearm, hooking the fridge door, and yanking it open so hard the condiments rattled.

The chicken was gone. Eddie stared at the empty shelf. “Where. Is. The. Chicken.”

Venom let out a satisfied slurp. “I was hungry.”

“You ate the backup chicken. You absolute—!”

“I was helping. You were going to overcook it anyway.”

Eddie slammed the fridge shut. “I swear to God, if you touch one more thing—”

One black tendril oozed out of Eddie’s neck, wrapping itself around the bottle of expensive balsamic he’d bought specifically for the reduction, and tipped it sideways, pouring it onto the counter.

Eddie lunged, but Venom retracted the tendril just fast enough that he smacked Eddie’s cheek instead.

“OW! Fuck—you’re the worst Valentine’s date I’ve ever had.”

“I’m not your date. I’m your better half. And your better half says take her out before she walks in and sees you crying.”

“I’m not crying.”

“You’re looking a little wet.”

“I’m sweating!” Eddie dragged both hands down his face. “You know what? Fine. You win. I’ll take her to that stupid Italian place.”

The front door clicked open, and there you were, flushed from the cold outside, your keys dangling from your fingers. Eddie stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, with a spatula raised as he pointed it at the symbiote’s head. He looked at you, then at the sad little table with its single rose, then back at you.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re… early.”

You kicked the door shut behind you, flicking your eyes over the scene: the slightly crooked candles, the mismatched plates, the pan on the stove with the burnt steaks.

“Really?” you said, lifting your eyebrows with surprise. “You’ll take me to the Italian place? With the garlic bread?”

Eddie rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah. I, uh… I tried doing something special. With my own hands. Thought it’d be nice. Romantic, y’know? But—” He gestured vaguely toward the counter. “It didn’t work. At all.”

You stepped closer, shedding your coat onto the back of a chair. Your eyes softened as you took in the effort, the wilted attempt at asparagus, the potatoes clearly mashed by Venom, the fact that he’d even bothered with cloth napkins.

“That’s so sweet, Eddie,” you said quietly. “I really value the effort. Like… really.”

Eddie exhaled, dropping his shoulders. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. I love how hard you try for me. It means more than any dinner at a fancy restaurant.”

“It was my idea,” Venom said as he elongated the black mass of a neck, stretching it closer to you. “I suggested cooking. I said, ‘Eddie, let’s make it personal.’ I’m the romantic one.”

Eddie’s eye twitched with irritation. “You burnt three steaks and ate the backup chicken raw, you lying sack of—”

You laughed, patting the smooth curve of his head, making the symbiote purr like a cat. “I’m sure you tried your best, V. Thank you.”

Eddie huffed. “Yeah, sure. He tried his best to sabotage the entire night and then take credit for the one part that actually worked.”

Venom flicked his tongue out just once, in a teasing and mocking gesture, before he retracted his neck back into Eddie’s shoulder.

You closed the last step between you, slid your hands up Eddie’s chest, and kissed him slowly. Eddie groaned into your mouth, finding your waist and pulling you flush against him. When you broke the kiss, you stayed close, brushing your nose against his.

“Thank you,” you murmured. “For trying. For all of it.” Then you sank to your knees.

Eddie’s breath hitched. “Baby—”

You looked up at him through your lashes, already working the button of his jeans. “Let me thank you properly.”

He stared down, wide-eyed like he couldn’t quite believe the turn the night had taken. His hands hovered uselessly for a second before settling on your shoulders. You tugged his jeans and boxers down just enough until his cock sprang free, already half-hard from knowing what was coming. You wrapped your fingers around the base and gave one slow stroke,

Eddie tipped his head back with a curse. “Fuck.”

You smiled against the tip and pressed a soft, open-mouthed kiss there, then licked a long and wet stripe from the base to the head. You could feel how Eddie tensed his thighs under your palms, and so you took him into your mouth, slow at first, just the head, swirling your tongue around the sensitive ridge while you worked the shaft in lazy twists of your hand.

Eddie looked down again. “Jesus… you don’t have to—”

You pulled off with a wet pop, just long enough to say, “I want to.” And then you swallowed him deeper.

He groaned louder this time, sliding one hand into your hair, pushing you softly, encouraging you to take more inside your mouth. You bobbed your head, taking more of him each time, letting your lips stretch around his thickness. Your saliva slicked him up fast, and you used it to stroke what your mouth couldn’t reach, twisting your wrist on every upstroke.

Venom’s voice slithered through the room. “Look at her. So good for us… so wet already, I can smell it.”

Eddie jerked his hips once, and you hummed around him in answer, the vibration making his lower belly clench. You pulled back until just the head rested on your tongue, then sucked hard, hollowing your cheeks.

Eddie tightened his hands in your hair. “Fuck—baby. Slow down, or I’m gonna—”

You didn’t slow down. You took him to the back of your throat, brushing your nose against his pelvis, and held there for a long second while your throat worked around him. Eddie’s knees nearly buckled, and a string of curses fell from his mouth.

You pulled off gasping, a thick strand of spit connecting your lips to his cock that you wiped with the back of your hand, grinning up at him like you’d won something.

You went back down, working him fast and sloppy in the best way. You cupped his balls with one hand rolling them gently, tracing the sensitive seam while the other wrapped firmly around the base, pumping in perfect time with the wet slide of your mouth. Eddie jerked forward in helpless little thrusts, he tried to hold still, tried to be polite, but he couldn’t. Each shallow rock of his pelvis pushed him deeper, and every time you met him with an eager moan around his length, he lost another piece of control.

Venom rumbled again. “She’s ours. Look how she takes us. Look how she wants it.”

Eddie’s grip in your hair turned almost painful. “I’m… fuck—I’m close. I can’t… I’m gonna—”

You moaned around him, encouraging every desperate twitch of his hips. You sucked harder—hollowing your cheeks and pressing along the underside, and that was it. Eddie came with a broken sound. Hot ropes of cum spilled down your throat in thick pulses, you swallowed greedily around him, trying to take every drop, milking him through it. You didn’t pull off right away, just kept your mouth on him until his thighs trembled and his cock jerked with overstimulation, too sensitive now for anything but gentle suction.

You sat back on your heels, looking up at him with that same soft and satisfied smile.

Eddie dragged a hand over his face, still breathing hard. “You’re… unreal.”

You stood, wiped your mouth again, and leaned in to kiss him, letting him taste himself on your tongue. He groaned into it, wrapping his arms around you like he never wanted to let go.

Venom’s voice came quieter now. “Told you cooking was a good idea.”

Eddie snorted against your lips. “Shut up.”

A/N: Heyyyy, so this is my little Valentine’s present for all of you beautiful people🩷

I hope you enjoy these Valentine’s Day stories. They’re not super long or overly detailed since there are five of them, so I tried to keep things short and straight to the point, but I still hope the smut was hot and the fluff was sweet. I’m sorry I didn’t write for all of Tom’s characters I usually write for, I really struggled with inspiration for these and my brain was completely fried😭

Also, a huge thank you to @mapping-out-skies for helping me out with some ideas for the Harry one

You pull away and look at his pitiful form. He doesn’t look well for a man his size. He’s very pale and sickly. Though considering the little bit of training you had to become a septa, he may just pull through and survive this. You aren’t even sure what could cause this much trouble to a man his size, and you think you might not want to know.

“Alright, no more milk of the poppy. Would you like something else for the pain?”

He grunts as he finally sits up. “Ale.”

Something about his voice makes you shudder. You head close to the hearth, stoking the fire before fetching him a horn of ale. You figure you shouldn’t, but that’s not a man you want to deny anything to. He looks frightening, with his disfigurement and big, broad body. Despite being in your care, you know he could easily snap your neck and be done with it.

When he takes the ale from you, he greedily gulps it down in one go. Then he sighs and rests back on the mattress, his eyes closing. You sit by the bed, watching him. When his eyes snap open again, you let out a squeak of surprise. 

“Do I frighten you, little bird?”

His voice should make you tremble in fear, but you feel sad. There’s a sadness that lingers within him, and it makes your heart ache. The way you look at him so tenderly doesn’t help things at all. Instead, he grows angry and rolls over, despite the pain in his side. He knows he’s too weak to run off, so instead he’s going to act like a petulant child.

Eventually, he sits up and the two of you begin to talk a bit. You feed him some venison with hard bread. He doesn’t say too much, but he does tell you his name. You recognize him even more now with a name attached, but you do not comment on his status. For now, he is just Sandor and he needs your help.

The days pass by well at first. Sandor remains abed, resting his body. You feed him, give him the ale he requests, and eventually, you begin to read to him. He hates it at first, but there’s not much else either one of you can do. And as time passes, his injury heals. He’s quick to his feet the minute he can get up without feeling like he might pass out from the pain.

You still have to scold him, as he’s immediately wanting to go out and train. He wants to swing that damned sword around, but you’re worried his stitches will come undone. So he takes it easy, though he grumbles about you being an annoying little cunt a lot. Still, you see the smile he tries to hide from you.

As time passes, you find yourself very much attached to Sandor. He’s not the usual man one might fall for, but he has a lot of his own personal quirks that make your heart melt. You show him a softness he hasn’t seen in so long, he wonders if he’s ever had anyone fuss over him the way you do.

And at night, the two of you retire in front of the hearth for a while, drinking ale and swapping stories. You love the way he talks about things, and his colorful language he uses to describe things. It hits you all at once; you are in love with Sandor Clegane.

He’s not the prettiest man, nor is he the most polite. But you love him all the same. Your heart is telling you to go for it, but your brain tells you to be cautious. It’s not a prudent thing to make a move on The Hound, yet you don’t want to be prudent.

So one night, when you’ve both had plenty of ale, you move a little closer. Sandor recognizes the warmth from you, and while he’s had this before, he tries to keep a distance from you. He has his own conflicting feelings to deal with. It all crumbles away when you press your hand on his chest. He moves to wrap one of his arms around you, pulling you closer.

“Little bird, you’re playing a dangerous game.” His voice is low and husky.

You smirk. “Perhaps I like dangerous games.”

He doesn’t need to hear more. You lean in, giving him the option to pull away if he doesn’t want to do this, but an all-consuming heat fills him. His lips crash down onto yours, making you moan softly. The sound of your little noise has his cock already twitching in his breeches. It’s impossible to even pull away at this point.

He lays you down on the rug beneath you both, his large form moving on top of yours. And then Sandor kisses you again, his tongue sliding between your lips. It meets with yours, causing you both to melt into this heat. His hands unlace your dress, opening it up for him to bare you to him. His lips trail downward, to your neck and collarbone. When you thread your fingers through his hair, he knows he’s at your mercy.

The two of you struggle with laces, fabrics and small clothes as you attempt to undress one another as you make out. His hands are calloused and rough on your soft skin, and Sandor swears he’s touching an angel. To him, you are his angel. You are the one who’s been the sweetest, softest and the most loving to him. He needs no other reason to be in love with you.

His hands trail down your body, caressing and groping. His lips follow as well, and he kisses the swell of your breasts. You’re softer, sweeter than all those whores he’s ever been with. Never again will he frequent a whorehouse if it means he can be with you intimately for the rest of his life.

“Yes,” you whisper as he wraps his lips around your pert nipple. “That’s it,”

Your voice is beckoning him to continue, and he’s more than happy to provide all this pleasure to you. His other hand continues downward, opening your thighs with ease. He finds you soaked already, and he nips at your nipple. You whine, looking down at him with pure adoration in your eyes.

“Drenched for me, little bird?” He murmurs against your soft skin.

“I need you, Sandor.”

Gods, the way you say his name will be the end of him. He begins to rut against you, his hard cock pressing against your thigh. He’s leaking a copious amount of precum, making you sticky with him. He doesn’t care, all he cares about is making you come.

His kisses continue, leading to your mound. His face is pressed into your cunt, and he takes a whiff of your heady scent. Sandor grunts before he begins to lap at you like the dog that he is. He’s not ashamed to admit that your scent alone could make him lose his mind.

You reach down to clutch at his long tresses, and your hips undulate to get even more of him on you. His tongue doesn’t disappoint, he’s making you shiver and shake with each lashing. He knows the spots that make you see stars. When he pulls away, it’s only to suck on two of his fingers. He places them at your entrance, and pushes them in. The sensation of his fingers curling against your sweet spot and his lips on your little bundle of your nerves proves to be too much.

“Sandor,” you pant as your thighs quake. “I’m coming!”

He doesn’t stop. He continues his ministrations, loving the way your walls are already clamping down around his fingers. Sandor grunts as your juices begin to flow into his mouth, and he lovingly laps it all up. He withdraws his fingers when you slump down on the floor, clearly already spent. He chuckles at your fucked out expression.

“I haven’t even put my cock in you, and you already look like this?”

You whine when you feel the blunt head of his cock prodding your entrance. “I’ve never had anyone make me come before.”

This gives him pause. You are a maiden. If he fucks you and you’d want to marry someone later on down the road, he’d be ruining it for you. He leans in to kiss you first, allowing you to feel the emotions stirring within him. 

“Are you sure you want this, little bird?” His voice is hoarse.

You caress his face, offering the sweetest smile. “I have never been more sure of anything in my life.”

He nods, before he looks down to where he’s about to penetrate you. Slowly but surely, inch by inch, Sandor slides into you. His eyes roll back at the tightness of your warmth. You feel unlike anything else. You’d be his ruin, his downfall and his end all in one. Yet your gentle touch brings him back to the surface, and you kiss him once more.

“Am I hurting you?” He asks, looking into your eyes.

“No, not at all.”

There was a fullness you’ve never felt. A pressure that seemed to invade all of you. But it was a feeling you wanted to feel again and again and again for the end of time. Sandor begins to rock his hips, pressing deeper into you over and over. Time almost seemed to stand still as he ruts into you. 

“Please,” you whimper. “Faster…”

You urging him on makes him growl. Sandor picks up his pace, his hands coming to rest on your hips as he fucks himself into you. The look on your face nearly makes him come undone. You pull him in for a kiss, all tongue and saliva.

He grunts as he pounds into you now, pulling pleasure from you. You whine his name, causing him to twitch inside of you. He’s never felt like this before; he wants to make you come on his cock so badly. He continues to kiss you, and one of his hands comes down to begin rubbing your clit in fast little circles.

Your back arches off the ground, and you begin to shudder as the pleasure builds. The moment you reach your peak, Sandor knows he’s in love with this feeling—he’s in love with you. Your walls convulse around him, pulling him over the edge moments after your own orgasm. He growls your name, his seed spilling into your warmth.

Then the two of you have a moment to catch your breath. He pulls out slowly, allowing his semen to run down your ass and onto the rug. He pulls you on top of him, kissing you all over your face before kissing your lips. You smile softly, looking into his eyes when you do pull away.

“I love you,” he says in a soft tone.

“I love you too, Sandor.”

And you surprise him by straddling his lap. You begin to rock your hips once more, making him chuckle.

“Ready for more, little bird?”

You grin. “Ready for round two.”

And so you peek at him over your book, gaze focused and almost delirious as you watch him, completely unaware of your lusty set of eyes. You observe him, vision fixed on his casual grip on you: ringed pinky and large, veiny hand perched upon your skin like it’s where it belonged. Everything about it so confident, so manly. Cardigan woven with wool and residual notes of whiskey and cigarettes — like it was a fortuitous, accidental representation as to who he is: gentle and virile.

You quietly pay attention to the way he works, his glasses resting atop his nose as he skims the page — his articulate, precise nature urging him to comprehend everything written. His heed to detail being one of the things most attractive about him. And yet, he had no idea what he was doing to you. Sat there, utterly unaware of his power.

Though that changes as your breathing grows inadvertently heavy, a sudden sharp inhale from you makes his neck snap to follow the sound. His eyes now focused on yours over your novel, a slight quirk in his brow as if to analyse you.

Your expression —or the top half, what he can see— is blissed, pained even. These last thirty-some minutes of gentle grazing begin to catch up with you.

He hums shortly, the noise an attempt to scope you out, though by now there’s no need for connecting dots or guessing — all evidence as clear as day. He looks down to his palm just above your knee, your thighs pressed tight together in an effort to alleviate some of the pressure you feel between them.

He uncrosses his ankles on the coffee table and leans forward, placing the stack of papers beside his whiskey tumbler. Ray clears his throat in his fist, a sly, faint smile forming behind his hand as if he’s debating with himself. His eyes drift down to the hand on your lower thigh, gaze following the ever so slow tail as he itches under your robe.

“You didn’t want to disturb me, did you?” Raymond questions, eyes pleased and proud as they flicker up to you.

“No,” you murmur with a faint shake of the head, voice catching in your throat as you watch. 

His fingers move inwards and under your nightdress, slotting between your thighs as if to separate them — his hand protruding through both thin layers of fabric. 

“So patient of you,” he teases, tilting his head forward, peering at you over the top of his glasses. “Must’ve been agony.”

It was. It really was.

With his spare hand, he reaches for your book and takes it from your hold — placing it open and faced down beside his papers to keep your space. He pulls back to sit in his original position, feet now planted on the floor, knees apart in a manspread. He taps at his thigh, running a hand down the beef of it like he was beckoning you, summoning you almost. 

“Come on,” he whispers, the instruction soft as he gestures you along. He taps at it again and rolls his hips underneath himself to reposition — preparing for you.

With an excited giggle, you do as asked, finally about to get what you want after all of his mindless teasing. You situate yourself over his lap, knees either side of his thighs as you use his shoulders for your support — keeping you up right. His eyes fix on you above, watching the antsy knitting and curving of your brows.

He spreads his arms either side along the back of the leather chesterfield, maintaining his dominance while he lets you take the lead. Or so he lets you think.

You reach between yourselves, your fingers hurriedly finicking with his belt, urging him out of his trousers. Your too quick movements stall your attempts, and you huff, the sound more similar to a whimper than anything else. 

His head cocks, amused, watching you fiddle with the buckle. Watching you fail with the buckle.

He lifts a hand from its spot behind the sofa, redirecting it to your cheek — palm large and warm as he cups the side of your face, making you look at him. Ray’s touch glides backwards to behind your neck, thumb resting over your ear as he urges you closer. Pulling you inwards. 

“Give me some sugar first.”

You lean in, pressing a quick kiss to his lips before moving away, trying to move away. Though he has other plans. His hold firm behind your neck to keep you there — bringing you back in so he could return the kiss. His beard skims at your chin as he deepens and roughens the kiss, intensifying the moment.

Though his dick is not yet hard, the presence of him is just as noticeable as if it were. The faint brushes of his big, thick cock through his trousers sends your mind into a tizzy. All your bodily responses become all the more evident, as if you’re betraying yourself. 

And with your attention consumed by the way he kisses you, he’s slipping his other hand between you both, reaching between your thighs. He itches a finger to skim down your cunt and you jolt, his touch catching you by surprise. You moan into his mouth, the sound stifled and muffled, before you pull away.

You look down to watch, but your view is obstructed by your fabric pooling around your thighs. And then he clicks his tongue, eyes still boring on your face. You follow the noise, looking back up and he nods slowly, wordlessly praising you for following along.

With your gaze fixed on his, he’s hooking his finger into the elastic of your underwear, parting it aside within his very skilled hand. He trails down your slit, all arousal noticeable when he’s met with no resistance, the slick of your cunt granting him easy access to toy with you.

He raises a brow, both satisfied and impressed. His touch remains light as he brushes the pad of his middle finger downwards, circling your entrance briefly before he’s slipping inside your cunt. 

It was something, but not enough. Nowhere close to being enough.

You wrap your arms around his neck, mouth grazing his with the closeness. 

“More,” you utter against his lips, a slight whine to your voice. “Another.”

Your hips wind involuntarily, like you’re preemptively chasing after something — anticipating it. The feel of a lone finger is far from what you needed to satiate the gaping want.

“Another what?” he speaks into your mouth, a twinge of whiskey being tasted on his tongue. He knew what he was doing, and he was abusing his power over you. “You’re a smart girl. Tell me.”

“Finger. Another finger,” you plead. Your answer is quick, like you thought the speed of your response will get you what you want faster.

He tuts quietly, lips brushing against yours as he shakes his head. 

All you can respond with is a whinge, a frustrated whinge at that and your hips still. The sensation of his finger being withdrawn from you. You mumble a faint, “What?” when you feel his hand part from behind your head, the one near your cunt too.

And then his hands drop to his lap, placing them between your thighs as he unfastens his belt — the jingling sound of the metal making your eyes widen, lighten almost. His hips raise underneath you as he tugs on the waistband of his trousers, pulling them down just enough to comfortably reach into his boxers.

He wraps a hand around himself and brings his cock out over the top, fisted grip tight as he gives it a few pumps — polishing his head as if to ready himself. With his other hand, he’s bunching the fabric of your garments, holding them up so he could guide himself closer to your cunt underneath. 

He knocks his head at your clit just to see and hear and feel you shudder, a response he often loved from you. And so with you right where he wants you, right at the edge, he’s lining up with you — his eyes fixed on yours like it's all coming from a place of muscle memory, not needing sight to know what he’s doing.

Ray presses the tip of his dick against your pussy, the shape of his head kissing at your entrance so perfectly. And when he feels like you’ve suffered enough, he’s feeding himself into you, filling you from underneath as you lower down — meeting him halfway.

Strength in your neck dissipates, your forehead collapsing against his as you inhale shakily, taking all of him until nothing remains. His balls pressing up against your cunt’s lips like you’re sitting on them. 

You lean in to kiss him while you give yourself a moment to reaccustom to him, familiarising with the thick feel of his cock. Your breath catches in your throat when you feel him bump up into you, a small jut upwards knocking the air out your lungs.

With himself wedged fully inside, he moves a hand to your throat, lightly holding under your jaw. There’s no pressure behind his touch, simply the presence there to guide you, to feel you. He keeps his mouth to yours, swallowing the little gasps you make and he tests the waters once more — adjusting his hips, pushing himself up into you entirely. The full weight of you perched upon his lap, sat on his dick.

“This what you wanted?” he murmurs, speaking against your lips.

You nod. Blissed, hazy eyes doing the talking for you as if you’ve suddenly become incapable of speaking. 

Ray runs his spare hand behind you and to the cheek of your ass, palm resting over the satin fabric as he guides you — ushering your hips forward to grind over him. Though the presence of his touch is short-lived as he reaches forward, collecting his papers from before.

With his hand on your jaw, he brings you inwards, tucking your face into his neck. He brings the papers in his view, holding the stack just to the side of you.

“If you can give me twenty minutes to finish this” he says, voice soft beside you. “I’ll fuck you for twice as long,” Ray whispers, his words a promise.

Raymond Smith is a man of his word.

Each time you walk past, he’s there - so focused, so calm, so fucking hot about it. And you’re bored, dripping into your panties because he hasn’t touched you all day.

Now you hover at the edge of the room, arms crossed beneath your chest, one hip cocked out, watching him. The deep blue walls and low pendant lights bathe him in warm amber, highlighting the sharp lines of his face and the steady, graceful rhythm of his pen against paper.

The soft grey pullover sweater he’s wearing clings to his back, the fabric stretching over lean, hard muscle. When he reaches forward or shifts in his chair, you watch the defined lines move beneath the material - all quiet dominance and control.

He has the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, exposing lean forearms threaded with veins and the solid weight of his favorite watch. His glasses sit perched low on his nose, his brow slightly furrowed as he makes notes on whatever spreadsheet he’s buried in now.

You sigh, loudly. Theatrically. But Ray doesn’t even glance up.

However, you do notice the faintest hesitation in his pen. He doesn’t react outwardly, but the subtlest shift sets across his toned shoulders, telling you he’s not as focused on his work as he’s pretending to be.

You can’t help the way your lips purse, just a little, at the realization. A quiet spark of satisfaction curls at the corners of your mouth.

Smirking, you saunter towards him, each barefoot step slow - letting the cardigan swing open just enough to tease. You stop behind his chair, stealing another moment to admire the shape of his back. There’s something so goddamn beautiful about the way he works - you could watch him like this for hours, casually running empires from the dining room.

His rich scent hits you as you approach - a hint of cedar from his cologne, clean detergent, and the lingering warmth of musk that always clings to him. It sinks into your lungs, leaving your head spinning in the best kind of way.

You shift in beside him, close enough to be felt, your voice soft and spoiled, almost petulant as you speak. “You’ve been working forever.”

He hums, his pen still moving. “Because someone has to make sure the money’s clean, darling.”

His pinky ring catches the light as he writes, glinting with every movement - precise and practiced, like everything he does.

Reaching out, you trail your finger slowly across his back, gliding from one broad shoulder to the other. The soft knit of his sweater shifts beneath your touch, and you feel the tension ripple beneath it.

“Are you insinuating that I’m dirty, Raymond?” you tease, your voice dipping low as you lean down, lips brushing his ear. Your teeth graze the shell of it, just a nip, soft and delicate - before pulling back with a wicked little smile.

Ray pauses at that, setting the pen down with a soft click, and lifts his head. He looks at you over the rim of his glasses, eyes dragging slowly over your body - your bare legs, the cardigan slipping low, the peek of lace beneath. He blinks once - then again, fast. A tic you’ve come to recognize. It’s how he reins himself in when he’s trying to stay composed.

Something he’s struggled with more since you came into his life, but not in a way he minds.

He turns slowly in his chair, finally facing you - gaze pinned, taking his time, indulging in your sight like it’s his reward.

His hand drags thoughtfully across his beard, like he’s weighing something - his fingers disappearing for a moment in the thick, meticulously kept scruff. Then he tips his chin and gestures toward his lap with a nod. “Come here,” he commands.

You bite your lip, eyes wide and a little too innocent, even as you let the cardigan slip a touch lower off your shoulder - just enough to offer a better view of your breast. Your tone is soft and sweet on the surface, but it’s laced with mischief. “Thought you were working.”

“I am.” His voice drops, low and sharper now. “Don’t make me ask again.”

A soft, excited meep slips past your lips - something small and involuntary, because you love it when he gets like this. You obey instantly, straddling his lap without hesitation, settling yourself over one thick, tailored thigh.

Ray raises an eyebrow when he realizes where you’re sitting. “What exactly are you doing?” he asks, voice edged with intrigue - his eyebrow still lifted, the corner of his mouth twitching like he's this close to smiling.

You rock your hips once, just to test him, and the pressure is perfect. Denim against lace. His firm muscle pressed right where you need it.

Your arms curl around his neck, fingertips brushing the nape of it, leaning in close. “Getting creative,” you purr, dragging your lips over his jaw. “Since you’re too busy to fuck me.”

Ray doesn’t move, but his hands come up, gripping your hips. And then his thigh flexes beneath you, just once - enough to make you feel it. He watches you like something primal and a little bit entertained, a faint sound catching in his throat.

“Go on, then,” he orders, his tone is dry with a tinge of amusement as he indulges you. “You’re already making a mess of my evening. Might as well make a mess of my fucking trousers while you’re at it.”

Glancing up at him through your lashes, your mouth curves into a smile that’s playful, sheepish, and just a little smug. Ray hates mess. Hates anything unclean or out of order. But you? He wants the mess when it’s yours.

You start to move slowly at first. Hips rolling in lazy motions, grinding yourself down on the solid muscle of his thigh. The friction is divine, and every drag of lace against denim makes you press down harder.

He’s focused, tracking each twitch of your lip, every flutter of your lashes, all the tiny reactions in the way you rock against him. You let out a breathy moan, soft and helpless, grinding down exactly right - and his composure falters. His jaw tics, his long fingers flex against your hips, like the sound and feel of you is almost too much for him.

Your eyes lock - his are dark and calm, yours wide and hungry. He doesn’t blink or move, just holds you there on his leg with his firm grip and consuming stare. Your pulse hammers in your throat - you shouldn’t like being watched this much, but you do. There’s something raw and electric about the way he looks at you.

Your pace picks up as your orgasm builds, pressure curling deep in your belly. The cardigan slips off one shoulder with the increased movement, your body flushed and glistening with heat underneath it. Ray tilts his head slightly and adjusts his glasses like he’s refocusing.

Both hands move up your body, one arm wraps around your waist, keeping you balanced. The other slips beneath the wool draped around your unexposed shoulder, guiding it down your arm.

Your chest is bare to him now, your nipples stiff from the air and your own need. He studies you with quiet obsession - his hand slides up to cup one breast fully, his thumb brushing over the swollen peak while he watches your breath hitch at the contact. He squeezes, enough to make your body jolt, then repeats the motion on the other side. The sound he pulls from you is almost pathetic - high and fragile enough to make him smirk.

“You know how good you look like this?” he praises, slate-blue eyes locked on your chest as his thumb teases you again. “These perfect tits out. Cunt soaked for me.”

His cardigan pools around your elbows as your pace stutters, hips grinding faster and harder as you chase the pressure. Every movement of your clit sweeping over his thigh sends pleasure rolling through you.

Desperate, broken noises spill from your lips, gasping as your grip tightens on his shoulders, nails biting into the soft material of his sweater - completely losing yourself on the muscle he’s tensed just for you.

“Can’t help but act up when you want my cock, can you?” he growls low, his thigh flexing hard beneath you again.

You whimper, your head shaking from side to side with hopeless want. He can see how far gone you are - pupils blown wide, sweat clinging to your skin, your pink mouth parted in a silent, pleading gasp. But you don’t let go. Because he hasn’t told you to.

And you’re waiting - just like he’s taught you too.

You’re grinding frantically against him now, breath catching on every exhale, lost in the burning haze of need. Your orgasm is just out of reach, held hostage by the absence of his permission - while he watches - composed, relishing in it.

Ray is savoring this - the way your release belongs to him. He loves to own these moments, making sure your orgasm isn’t just something you take, but something he gives.

And then his voice slices through it all. “Do it,” he instructs, quiet and absolute. “Make a mess, love.”

His order is your undoing - your hips jerk forward, involuntarily, chasing that final bit of friction. The tension coils so tightly it’s nearly unbearable - your breath shatters, legs trembling as your entire body locks up in ecstasy. You cry out, grinding against him as your orgasm burns through your core, blurring your vision and leaving you slack with pleasure. You soak his thigh completely, the mess is hot and unfiltered, gushing through the lace and darkening the fabric beneath you.

You’re panting against his chest, eyes fluttering open slowly, still floating in that haze. And when you finally look up at him, his gaze is dark and heavy with desire - like he’s drinking in the sight of you ruined and breathless in his arms and loving every second of it.

“Needy little thing,” he remarks, not even trying to hide the amusement in his tone at your behavior.

Ray’s hand moves to your jaw, fingers curling gently around it as he guides your face closer to his, leaning in to press a kiss to your damp temple.

He shifts beneath you then, lifting you off his lap with gentle care. You whimper softly at the absence, legs still shaky, and he steadies you while you find your footing.

That’s when you see it, the shape of him - hard, thick, and straining beneath his trousers. Your breath catches, and you nibble on your lips as your thighs instinctively clench. You're still aching, still needy, because he hasn’t fucked you properly yet.

But Ray knows this, and without a word, he reaches for the cardigan still hanging from your arms. He slips it down slowly, knuckles grazing your sides as the wool glides over your skin, removing it and folding it over the back of the chair - neat and methodical, just like him.

With a quiet shift, he removes his glasses - holding them delicately in one hand - while his other bunches the fabric of his sweater between his shoulder blades. In one smooth motion, he pulls it up and over his head, muscles flexing as golden skin stretches across his torso. His chest is broad, lean, and defined in a way that’s always present beneath whatever crisp layers he wears. His stomach muscles contract with the motion, and as the fabric clears his head, it tousles his perfectly styled hair - leaving it just slightly disheveled.

He drapes it over top of the discarded cardigan, still holding his glasses, still watching you, before he slides them back on. His eyes trail down your body, devouring every inch of you standing there in nothing but those lace panties, chest flushed from release, plump lips parted, legs pressed together like you’re trying to hold in what’s left of your composure.

Ray looks down at you for a moment longer, like he can’t quite believe how pretty you are like this. His hand lifts, brushing the pad of his thumb slowly across your bottom lip, feeling the softness. He watches you like he’s starving, the quiet intensity in his eyes makes your pulse stutter. Your mouth parts, and you take his thumb between your lips - just to show that you’ll let him do anything.

And then almost like a switch, his expression changes, eyes darkening with intent as he instructs, “Turn around.”

You do as you’re told without hesitation.

He places one hand between your shoulder blades and guides you forward until your bare stomach meets the edge of the table. His palm flattens gently against your back, and with that same calm control, presses you down and bends you over without a word of resistance.

You brace yourself on the table, breath shallow, chest rising and falling against the cool wood. Behind you, there’s the quiet clink of his belt coming undone, the low slide of leather through denim - the sound alone makes your stomach flip.

Just as your breath steadies, you feel him at your hips, his fingers slipping beneath the waistband of your panties. He drags the lace down slowly, letting it slide over the curve of your ass, your thighs, until it catches around your ankles. The fabric is damp, clinging slightly from how soaked you are, and you feel the low rumble of approval from his chest as your foot moves to kick them aside.

He pushes your legs further apart with a nudge of his toe, causing you to gasp softly. But you move easily and eagerly - parting your thighs wider for him, desperate to be filled. The cool air against your bare cunt only intensifies the ache between your legs.

The heat of his body crowds in around you as the weight of his cock brushes your inner thigh. He guides himself through your dripping folds, dragging his tip slowly between your swollen lips, smearing your release all over his length. His precum mixes with you - warm, sticky, and lewd.

One slow roll of his hips, and he’s pressing inside you - holding, letting you feel the stretch begin. The first few inches make your knees buckle. He’s thick and unforgiving, filling you up like it’s the first time all over again. You clench around him, greedily trying to take more, but he holds steady - giving you only what he wants.

Then he sinks in - and the most delectable, shameless sound escapes your body. Ray grunts at the feel of you, his hand coming to your hip, holding you firmly as he starts to move.

He fucks you with long, deep strokes - dragging the length of himself all the way out before thrusting back in, a bit harder each time. The pressure, the fullness, the overwhelming movement of him, slams into you all at once.

His grip tightens around your waist, one hand trailing slowly up your back, firm and steady, pinning you to the table.

You whimper, fingers digging into the edge of the table - no matter how many times he fucks you, no matter how wet or ready you are, the feel of him inside you always leaves you wrecked. So much and not nearly enough - an exquisite kind of ache.

A moan tears from your throat, loud and greedy, while Ray sets his pace - punishing and devastatingly precise. The table shifts beneath you, legs creaking in protest, and somewhere under your cheek, you feel papers slipping - documents he’d been buried in all evening, now pushed askew by the force of your body jolting against the wood.

“This what you needed?” he taunts, his voice a mixture of gravel and silk. “After all that whining - this what you were after?”

You nod, gasping his name as he drives deeper, harder, each thrust stealing the air from your lungs. His own breathing grows heavier, but his control never wavers - one hand stays locked around your waist, the other ghosts up your spine.

“Listen to you,” he utters, dark and amused. “Can’t even take a proper fuck without crying for it like a filthy thing.”

A high pitched whimper tumbles from your lips at his words, mouth open against the table, fingers still clawing at the edge for something to hold onto while he drills into you - measured and merciless.

Ray goes on, his breath brushing across your skin. “Couldn’t behave yourself. Grinding this cunt all over my fucking thigh, desperate for anything I’d give you.”

His fingers slide up the back of your neck and tangle into your hair, curling tight - not forceful, but to keep you right where he wants you. He leans in until his mouth hovers at your ear, the heat of him sending goosebumps down your spine.

“But you like being like this, don’t you?” he rasps, his voice rough and raw.

Another thrust and your voice stutters from your throat as he fucks into you like he owns you, hitting your g-spot, over and over, making your legs quiver under the pressure of it, your body clenching tight. You’re dripping for him, so wet he buries himself in your drenched heat, every thrust slick and loud.

He pants, “Soaked and spread out for me,” hips snapping forward again, “My perfect, messy girl.”

You sob out his name, wrecked and breathless - his only response is another relentless thrust of his hips and a low snarl. You feel him everywhere - wrapped in your hair, pressed along your spine - mouthing filth into your skin like its devotion.

He straightens up behind you while his pace quickens, skin on skin echoing off the walls. You gasp, your head turning just enough to look over your shoulder - and what you see nearly undoes you all over again.

Ray’s brow is furrowed, jaw clenched, sweat beading along his temple. He’s flushed, focused, and fucking you so purposeful, it could only be him. Without breaking his stride, he lifts one hand to his face, slipping his glasses off.

He wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his wrist, a low exhale slipping between his clenched teeth. Then, hurried, he slides them right back on. You watch his lashes flutter once, then twice, and again in quick succession.

Because he needs to see.

Needs to watch the way he sinks into you with every push - how soaked your cunt is, how you clutch around him like it’s the only thing you know how to do.

The sight of him above you, bare-chested and sweating, muscles flexing with every snap of his hips, working his cock into you - steals the breath straight from your lungs and makes your head spin with how utterly gone you are for him.

You feel it building again - quick and heavy - your body still strung out from riding his thigh, the teasing, the stretch of him. Your clit throbs, your arousal making a mess of both your thighs and the table beneath you.

“That's it,” he murmurs, his voice thick with pride. “Squeezing me so good, going to milk every drop out of me.”

You nod urgently, hips jerking, the tops of your thighs bumping the edge of the table, his name slipping past your mouth in broken cries.

You can’t wait - not this time.

“Please… please, let me! I need to come, Ray - please!”

You’re begging before he even gives the word, too desperate to hold it in, too strung out to care. You typically know better, but right now, all you can do is plead.

Your desperation punches right through his composure. He groans, low and ragged, his usual soft tone completely abandoned. And that’s when his fingers slide low - finding your clit, rubbing it just right, coaxing your orgasm forward while his cock pounds into your perfect spot.

You cry out for him - broken and high - as your orgasm slams through you like a wave, your vision going white at the edges. You pulse around him hard, soaking him all over again, the slick sounds between you turning obscene.

But Ray doesn’t stop.

His thrusts keep coming, dragging you straight into overstimulation. Whining, you tremble beneath him as your body jerks, raw and ruined - tipping past the edge until you're spiraling all over again.

He groans out, pace faltering, hips snapping faster as he loses his own control. “Fucking hell - look at you,” he pants. “Can’t stop making messes all over me.”

You’re still pulsing around him, fluttering and tight, and it tips him. With a hoarse sound, he drives into you one last time and spills deep, flooding you with his release. You feel every throb of it, every warm pulse as he fills you with his cum, groaning again, hips rocking slowly, like he can’t stop, like he needs to feel every last drop sink into you.

His movement softens, breath ragged against your back as he stays buried, grinding lazily through the aftershocks. With a final exhale, he lets his weight settle over you gently, his chest pressed to you, his body flush with yours.

His lips land on your shoulder - light and slow - kissing you there once, then again - a little lower, a little longer. The brush of his thick beard against your skin is warm and scratchy, pulling you gently into the afterglow.

You shift slightly beneath him, and he finally, gently pulls out - his softening cock slipping free with a low groan, followed by the slow warmth of his release trickling down your thigh.

He presses a final kiss to your shoulder, then lifts up from you just enough to move. One hand stays on your back while the other slides around your waist.

“Easy now,” he soothes, voice low and spent.

With a careful grip, he helps you upright, guiding your body back against his chest, steadying you as your shaky legs try to find themselves again. His arm wraps fully around you, keeping you close.

You lean into him, flushed and breathless, your skin damp, a gorgeous grin spreads across your lips - it’s lazy and satisfied, like you’ve just been thoroughly, completely fucked out of your mind.

Ray glances down, catches the look on your face, and shakes his head with a soft, incredulous laugh. “Christ, love. You act like this wasn’t your plan the second I opened my laptop.”

You tilt your head, feigning innocence - but the mischief in your eyes gives you away completely. “It wasn’t!” you protest, far too quickly - your voice softening, sweet and smug, before adding “…But you left me unattended.”

Ray lets out a quiet breath as he leans in, pressing a slow kiss to the space between your cheek and your ear - softly inhaling your scent, a private little indulgence.

“I ought to fucking know better,” he mutters against your skin, but here’s no bite in it, only fondness and amused surrender. The kind of affection reserved for someone who keeps getting away with it… because he wants them to.

As he steps back, his ringed hand slips from your waist to your ass, delivering a firm little swat that makes you gasp and laugh.

“Minx,” he mutters dryly under his breath - like its fact.

Two weeks and a half. That’s how long it had been since you’d last seen Alfie Solomons. The longest you’d ever gone without him since this whole secret affair between you two began. It wasn’t your choice, of course. Tommy had sent you off on some godforsaken business trip to the other side of the country, and you couldn’t refuse, couldn’t afford to raise suspicions.

“It’s only gonna be two weeks. What’s the problem with that, eh?” Tommy said with that tone you knew too well.

You twisted a piece of hair around your finger, trying to play it cool and sound casual. “You know I hate being away from home. Besides, I’ve got meetings scheduled with Solomons and—”

“Meetings with Alfie?” he interrupted sharply. “I’ll handle them. Don’t worry.”

And that was that. With Tommy, it was always final.

But being away from Alfie was pure maddening torture. You craved him like air, every single night you were away you burned for him, remembering the way his hands roamed your body, setting it on fire. The thought of him, the feel of his rough hands on your skin, made your pulse race and your body ache with an emptiness that only he could fill.

Now, finally, you were back, and you knew exactly what kind of welcome Alfie would have in mind, how he’d want to make up for lost time.

You could hear him pacing from the hallway outside his office, the heavy sound of his boots, like a caged beast. His frustration was palpable, each step a silent promise of what was to come. He was waiting for you.

The moment you pushed the door open, he was on you. No time for greetings. No words. No sweet kiss or pleasantries of any sort. Nothing but desperation as he slammed you against the wall, his hands all over your body like he’d gone half-mad. The force of his touch was like a jolt of electricity to your body, and it felt as though the weight of your separation melted away in an instant.

“Four ‘undred an’ seventeen hours, right, an’ thirty-four fuckin’ minutes.” His voice was low and rough. “That’s how long it’s been since I last had you.”

You gasped out a breathless laugh. “You counted the minutes?”

“I counted the fuckin’ seconds, darlin’. I did. Pathetic, innit? Absolutely fuckin’ pathetic.”

His mouth crashed onto yours with no finesse, just hunger, a type of hunger you haven’t seen before, not even in him. His kiss was feral, consuming, and you could taste the desperation in every frantic movement of his lips, as though he couldn’t get enough of you, like he was trying to memorize the feel of your mouth on his.

“Treacle… my fuckin’ girl, yeah? My gorgeous little shiksa, come back to drive me up the bloody wall.” he murmured against your mouth.

His kiss turned even more heated, all tongue and teeth, he was so lost, going so fast he didn’t even notice how he bit your lip until he tasted the blood, but still, he didn’t mind. It was rough, wild, a reminder of how much he needed you, how much he’d missed you. His hands were everywhere, pulling at your hair, grasping at your waist, and your body responded instinctively, aching for his touch.

“Alfie… fuck… slow down,” you gasped between kisses.

“No. No, I’m not fuckin’ slowin’ down, alright? I’m fuckin’ dyin’ here, woman,” his voice was raspy, breaking like a man on the edge. “It’s been weeks. You understand that? Left me starvin’ like some poor sod left out in the cold, yeah? While you were off playin’ secretary for your brother.

“I know, I missed this too but—”

“I don’t care for bloody excuses, yeah?” he spat. “Fuckin’ Tommy sendin’ you away, blah, blah. Well while you were on your little vacation I almost gave me cock a fuckin’ third-degree burn wankin’ myself raw thinkin’ about that tight little cunt of yours.” He pulled back just enough to look you dead in the eye. “Suddenly I’m a fuckin’ fourteen-year-old boy again behind the synagogue, pants ‘round me ankles and fuckin’ my fist.”

You looked at him then and he was a wreck, he looked more disheveled than his usual self, beard grown out, eyes hollowed with exhaustion as if the last time he had slept was right before you left. His rugged appearance, those eyes heavy, that tense body, only made the need for him feel more urgent, more raw. He looked like he had been existing in some kind of torturous limbo without you.

“I even thought of shaggin’ some whore while you were gone, get a tart to come and please me, but they’re not my treacle. Do you think I want anyone else? I’d rather rot, yeah? I’d rather go insane than stick me cock in someone who ain’t you, than live without this.”

“You look like a mess,” you whispered.

“Yeah? well that’s cause I am a fuckin’ mess for you,” he muttered darkly, fingers fumbling with his belt. “And you’re gonna pay for leavin’ me alone for weeks, yeah? That’s called fuckin’ retribution.”

In one swift move, he lifted you, with your legs wrapped around his waist, and he began yanking up your dress.

“No fuckin’ knickers again,” he growled, half laughing like a man unhinged. “Bloody menace you are.”

Two fingers ran through your slick heat, Alfie groaned like a dying man when he felt how wet your already were for him. He pulled his fingers out and shoved them into your mouth.

“Taste yourself,” he growled. “You fuckin’ taste how desperate you are for me too?”

You sucked on his fingers, moaning around them, eyes wild, and he nearly came in his trousers.

“God damn,” he muttered, dragging his fingers free. “You’re gonna kill me, woman.”

Before you could even say something back, he slammed into you with one brutal thrust that had your back arching hard against the wall.

“Oh God… you’re tighter than I remembered, like a fuckin’ vice,” he hissed. The intensity of his thrust rocked you, sending shockwaves of sensation through your body, making you gasp for air. You could feel every inch of him as he filled you, like nothing else in the world mattered but him inside you.

And just like that, he came.

A single groan ripped from his throat, long and raw. He buried his face in your shoulder, rutting helplessly into you, already spent, already getting soft. His entire body shuddered against you, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. You could feel his heart thumping wildly beneath your skin, his desperation burning through you as he clung to you, unwilling to let go.

You blinked. One minute. Maybe. If you were being generous.

He stayed there, breathing hard, forehead pressed to your skin like he’d just been shot, and avoiding your gaze.

“Fuck…fuck! oh you little—” He pulled out with another groan, shaking and panting against your shoulder like a man that had been defeated.

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh, but it slipped out anyway. It wasn’t cruel, just an amused little chuckle.

“That’s it?” you teased softly, knowing exactly how dangerous this game was.

“Don’t fuckin’… don’t fuckin’ start,” he groaned, hiding his face in your neck like a wounded animal. “Don’t even look at me, I swear to God—”

He stepped back, murmuring incomprehensible words, adjusting himself, glaring like he could burn a hole through the floor.

“Don’t you dare… Don’t you fuckin’ dare look smug about this,” he growled. “That fuckin’ mouth… this cunt… that’s why I lasted sixty seconds.”

You grinned, teeth biting into your lower lip. “Think it was more like thirty.”

He groaned again. “Right, well now I’m insulted and limp, cheers, love.”

You didn’t hear from him for a week.

There were no sweets, no flowers delivered by one of his men when your family wasn’t home, no filthy telegrams full of his usual depraved words.

Nothing. Because Alfie Solomons had never been so embarrassed in his life. The way he’d lost control and came way too fast,!like some bloody virgin teenager who’d never touched a woman before… it was simply unacceptable.

Now it was a new week with another scheduled meeting, and you were back in Camden, only this time, he didn’t look happy to see you, he wasn’t smirking like he always did whenever he saw you.

No, he was just staring, reclined in his chair with his arms crossed over his stomach.

“You humiliated me, yeah? You know that, don’t you?” He said as soon as you stepped inside his office.

You blinked. Here we go.

“Alfie—”

“No. Shut your gob and let me fuckin’ talk,” His voice was calm. “It is a fact. You shamed me. Laughed. Mocked a man in his moment of weakness, in his darkest hour, right? and that is a vile, a very evil thing to do, treacle, a very unkind thing.”

“I didn’t mock you,” you tried. “I—”

“You laughed, woman. You know what that does to a man’s ego? to a man’s pride?” his voice still calm but harsh. “Now I have a very big ego, probably not as big as what’s between my legs, right? But it still hurts, treacle.”

He stood slowly, and for some reason he looked bigger, broader, dangerous. He walked to the door and flicked the key, and slipped it into his pocket.

“Alfie,” you said, heart starting to pound. “What are you—”

“You ain’t leavin’ this room,” he said, walking toward you with such calm that it was terrifying in a way. “Not ‘til I prove myself that you’ll never laugh again, is that clear?”

You swallowed hard.

“Oh yes, treacle. You won’t be laughing tonight,” he muttered. “You’re gonna cry. You’re gonna cry and you’re gonna be begging me to have some mercy on you. But I won’t.”

What happened next was so fast, your mind barely had time to register it. One second you were standing in front of him, and the next Alfie had ripped your dress open, buttons flying everywhere across the room as his big, greedy hands claimed every inch of your body as his. He touched and kneaded every ounce of your soft flesh, every touch of his hands was an insistent claim, possessive and almost brutal, making your skin burn beneath his fingertips. The next second he shoved you back onto his desk, flat on your back, completely naked and sprawled across a mess of his paperwork.

“Now you…” he panted, his eyes looked dark as sin. “You’re gonna be a good girl and you’re gonna lie there lookin’ pretty for me, yeah?”

You nodded, feeling your breath getting heavy as he pulled off his belt.

“Give me your fuckin’ hands,” he ordered, his voice was commanding, and you had no choice but to obey instantly.

He tied your wrists together with the leather, tight but not so much that it’d hurt. And then he dropped to his knees on the floor like a man in prayer. He gripped your thighs, dragged you to the edge of the desk, and spread you open so your soaked, pulsing center was right in front of his face.

He let out a dark chuckle. “Well, would ya look at that? Eh? Fuckin’ soaked.”

He slapped your pussy once, softly and playfully, but it was enough to make you whimper and squirm beneath him from how raw it was.

“I’d call a photographer in here, proper one, yeah? Ask him to take a picture of it… Immortalize this perfect fuckin’ cunt forever. But I’d have to shoot the bastard in the ‘ead. No one sees this an’ lives to tell the tale.”

He slapped your wet heat again with his fingers, his touch drove you crazy with need, instantly jerking your hips against his hand, desperate to feel more of him.

“Please, Alfie—” you whimpered, the ache between your legs was becoming unbearable. You wanted to reach out to him, grab his hair and pull him until his face was buried in your cunt, but the belt around your wrists made it impossible.

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll start in a moment, treacle, alright?” He muttered, his eyes fixed on you. “Don’t rush me. Let a man admire somethin’ so divine, yeah? You’re a proper masterpiece down ‘ere.”

And then he began. Teasing you like he always did. His thick fingers slid along your folds, slick with arousal, brushing over your entrance again and again, but he didn’t touch your clit, he avoided it with expert cruelty, knowing exactly how to drive you mad.

“You look so pretty squirming like that,” he murmured, voice dangerously low. “Enough to make a sane man go fuckin’ feral. And I was never sane to begin with.”

Finally, his thumb pressed down on your clit, in firm, relentless circles, and you cried out, your head dropping back with a gasp. The sensation was overwhelming, making every nerve in your body ignite with pleasure, and you couldn’t help the little whimper that escaped your lips. He already knew exactly how to undo you, he always had the right pressure and pace that shattered your control in minutes.

“I’m close, Alfie. I’m gonna—!” you tried to warn him, but the orgasm hit you like a tidal wave. Your legs jerked and your whole body clenched tight. The sheer intensity of it made your vision blur, your back arching off the desk as you lost all control, the world shrinking down to nothing but the pleasure that he had built inside you.

Alfie groaned, relishing in the way your body trembled because of him. “Beautiful. You’re so fuckin’ beautiful cummin’ for me, treacle.” His voice was thick with pride, like he was savoring every drop of the pleasure he was giving you.

“Tell me, what other man can make you cum like that, eh?” He waited. “Go on then, tell me, what other fuckin’ geezer’s ever made you cum like that, yeah? I’ll wait.”

“No one,” you sobbed breathlessly. “No one, Alfie.”

But he wasn’t done with you, not even close. He didn’t offer you even a second of mercy before pushing two fingers into your soaked cunt, knuckles-deep, fucking you fast and hard with them. Each thrust of his fingers was a ruthless reminder of just how little he cared for your exhaustion. His pace was brutal, relentless, and you could feel the heat of his body burning into yours with every movement.

“You’re gonna take it,” he growled, an evil smirk on his face, “gonna take everythin’ I give you tonight.” His words were more like a command than a question, and you had no choice but to obey, your body moving to his rhythm without thought.

Your second orgasm slammed into you before you even had time to prepare for it, and by the time he started working toward the third, your legs were trembling, you felt overstimulated, and your tears were pooling at the corners of your eyes. The world spun, and you could feel every nerve on edge, your body gasping for air, trying to recover, but Alfie refused to let you, he was pushing you past your limits, over and over again.

“Oi, you alright, love? You still with me? There we go… That’s my good girl. Cryin’ and takin’ it like a fuckin’ champ.” His voice sounded tender but at the same time you could notice the mocking undertone in it. The tenderness only made the harshness of his touch more pronounced, like he was playing with your body as if it were a toy he could control.

He slid a third finger back inside you, curling it to hit your g-spot, while his mouth feasted on your clit, sucking, swirling, biting, making obscene sounds against your wet center. His lips and tongue worked you with cruel precision, his fingers curling to drive you even closer to the edge, while his groans against your clit made your body tremble even more.

“Missed the way your cunt tastes,” he grunted. “Like syrup. Could bottle it. Sell it next to my rum.”

His groans mixed with the sounds of your slickness, your whimpers, your hoarse cries. Each sound seemed to fuel him more, pushing him to devour you completely, to take what he wanted without any mercy. Your pussy was overstimulated to the point of pain, it was almost torturous, you wanted to scream at him, asking him to stop, but you were still begging him for more.

His fingers inside your hole pumped in and out, fast, deep, unrelenting. The pressure was building so intensely that it felt like every cell in your body was firing off, and yet you couldn’t pull away. His grip on you was too strong, too perfect, keeping you right there at the edge of oblivion.

And when your third orgasm hit, it damn near knocked you out, your vision blurred for a second, making you feel lightheaded. Your whole body seized up, unable to control the overwhelming wave of ecstasy that took over, and you cried out his name, unable to form anything coherent as you gave in completely.

You cried out his name, your hips bucking against his hand. He pulled away and stood up, licking his fingers clean as he looked down at you, completely ruined and all because of him.

“You gonna laugh now? Still got a joke in ya, do ya? Gonna laugh now, eh?”

“No… Alfie, I won’t, I promise,” you choked out through a moan, your whole body trembling. You could barely catch your breath, feeling like you’d been torn apart and put back together in the most brutal way possible.

“I’m not convinced, you see?” He said darkly. “Think I gotta make the point a bit clearer, don’t I? Think you still got a lesson to learn.” His words sent a shiver down your spine, and though you were exhausted, you couldn’t help but want to see just how far he would push you.

He shoved down his pants, and you saw just how hard he was, like a rock, dripping precum. The sight of him, so desperate and thick with need, made your heart race again, despite the overwhelming sensation of your body already having given so much.

“You ever laugh at me again,” he warned, “I’ll tie you down to this desk and keep you here for a fuckin’ week.”

He slowly pushed into you, and every inch of him burned like fire inside you. You gasped, your walls stretching to accommodate him, feeling every inch as he filled you completely, slowly, almost torturously, until there was nothing left but the raw sensation of him inside you.

“Jesus Christ,” he gritted out. “I’m never gettin’ used to you. Tight little thing… so soft…”

Then he began to thrust, setting his pace hard, fast, brutal, and your body practically lifted from the desk with every stroke. It was so deep, so relentless, that you felt like you might shatter at any second, your body giving itself to him in ways you hadn’t thought possible.

“You feel that?” he groaned, slamming into you harder. “You feel how deep I am? That’s me in your guts. Rearrangin’ fuckin’ furniture. Writin’ my fuckin’ name on your insides.”

You could only sob, your eyes fluttering back as he took you over the edge once more. Every thrust felt like it was taking you apart, and you were powerless to do anything but feel it, over and over again, until you couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t do anything but give yourself to him completely.

“You were so smug, laughin’ at me the other day, but look at you now. Cryin’ on my cock… That’s poetic justice, that is.”

He snapped his hips harder, faster, until your thighs shook and you screamed his name, feeling another climax approaching.

“Come on, treacle,” he panted, “give me another one. Last one. Around my cock.” He said, breathless, pounding into you with ferocity. His voice was a mix of desperation and satisfaction, as though he couldn’t get enough of the sound of you breaking, of you being his in every possible way.

You fumbled with the belt, moving your wrists and trying to break free from the tight grip of it. You wanted to push him away, you felt like your tight hole couldn’t take it any more, it was too sore, too overstimulated. The belt bit into your wrists each time you struggled, the leather was creaking, and still he didn’t let up.

“Nuh-uh, treacle,” he said with a wicked smile, “the belt stays where it is. Don’t fight it. Just take it.” He owned every part of you, your body, your cries, the very air in your lungs. Your struggle only made him hungrier.

God, you wanted it so much. Even in the pain, even in the overwhelming stretch of it all, there was something about the way he held you as he pounded into you, that made you feel worshipped in the filthiest way. He snapped his hips harder and your final orgasm tore through you, whimpers hoarse, crying out his name. He felt the delicious pressure of your cunt squeezing him, and already knew that was his undoing.

“Fuck— Oh darlin’, I’m right there” He muttered through his teeth.

His own orgasm followed quickly after yours, he pulled his cock out of you, cum shooting out of him and getting all over your thighs and stomach in warm, pearly white streaks. The heat of it spread across your skin, marking you as his in the most primal way.

He grabbed his shaft, letting the tip of his now half-hard cock smear his cum all over you, as if he was painting you with it. The head of his cock dragged across your belly, your thighs, messy and unapologetic. His gaze never leaving you, eyes dark with something animal, there was reverence in it too, like you were a canvas and he’d just finished a masterpiece, like the mess he made of you was art.

“I swear, so help me God,” he growled through a grin, “one day I’m just gonna fuckin’ die on top of you, big stupid grin on my face, cock still inside you, ‘cause there’s no better way to go. And even dead, I wouldn’t stop thinkin’ about it.”

“You’re insane,” you breathed, your body had gone limp at this point.

“You made me insane. You did this to me”

He untied your wrists gently, rubbing the marks on your skin to ease the discomfort, then leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead.

“You did proper fuckin’ good, love. Amazin’. Treacle, you’re bloody magnificent, you know that?” he murmured, arms wrapping around you as he let you rest against his chest while his fingers traced slow circles on your arm.

His eyes dropped to your stomach, staring at the mess he’d made.

“I’m gonna buy one of those…” he muttered, breath still ragged, “one of those bloody Kodaks or summat. Take a picture of this right here, and then I’m gettin’ it tattooed on me chest.”

You let out a laugh, both amused and wrecked. “Is that your version of being romantic?”

He shrugged, completely unapologetic. “It’s the most romantic I’ve ever fuckin’ been, innit? Don’t get used to it.”

You tried to shift, to pull your legs together and sit up, but they wouldn’t cooperate. They felt like jelly, trembling, completely boneless after all he put you through.

“You can’t walk, can you?”

“Barely.”

“Good,” he said smugly. “That’s how it should be.”

NEXT PART HERE

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this part (many more coming) thank you so much for your support and nice words!! it makes me so happy🫶🫶

After that one evening in Camden Town, inside Alfie’s office, everything changed. Because after that night, there wasn’t a single business meeting that didn’t end with him fucking you. On his desk. On his chair. Against the wall. On the floor.

It was getting out of hand, yes, but now you knew exactly how Alfie Solomons felt inside you, and there was no way in hell you were going to stop.

You were past the point of hiding, past the point of caring… of caring if your family would notice. You weren’t exactly being subtle, not with the satisfied little smile on your face or the way you limped every time you came back home after a “business meeting” with Alfie. Not with the scarves you wore even when it was warm outside, just to cover the bruises he left on your neck.

You knew your brothers wouldn’t believe it. The idea they had of you was that you were a proper, composed, elegant woman. Fucking Alfie Solomons? It was absurd. You wouldn’t let a brute like him between your legs, no, you were a proper lady.

But Polly… Polly noticed.

She was a woman too, after all. She could read that look on your face a mile away, the look of a woman being properly, thoroughly, and unapologetically fucked.

But again… you didn’t care.

You made your way through Alfie’s distillery like you did every week now, like it was routine. Some of his workers looked at you when you passed, not strangers to the noises coming from his office when you were inside, but none of them dared to say a word, they were too afraid to even mention what they heard behind his office door.

Alfie wasn’t sitting at his desk when you entered, no, he was sprawled out on the leather armchair at the head of the office, legs open, shirt half-unbuttoned, thick forearms resting on the arms of the chair like he was a king.

“Come ‘ere,” he ordered.

You stepped in, standing between his open legs. His rough hands traveled to your body, gripping your ass greedily.

“D’you know what I’ve done?” he growled, eyes dark. “Thinkin’ about you?” He buried his face against your stomach, inhaling like a man starved. “Fucked my own hand three times last night… thinkin’ about you. Not once did it help. I dream about this cunt, I do. Wake up every night so hard I could shatter porcelain, right? And no matter what I do, it ain’t enough. You… you’re the only thing that fixes it.”

Then he grabbed your hand and shoved it down to his crotch. You felt the thick, pulsing length of him under his trousers, so hard and aching for you.

“Feel that? Been fuckin’ hard for you since last Thursday,” he groaned. “Even had a little wank before you came… just to take the edge off. Didn’t work. Still fuckin’ hard.”

“So blunt,” you teased, raising an eyebrow. “Where’d all your poetry go?”

He smirked, “It’s rather hard to be poetic when all my blood’s in my cock instead of my brain,” he shot back, completely unapologetic.

“Let me help you,” you whispered, your voice dripping with the same hunger in his.

“Oh, you’re gonna help alright,” he growled as he leaned forward. “Get that fuckin’ dress off. And get on your knees. Right fuckin’ now, yeah? I’ve been polite for about three minutes too long and my patience is hangin’ by a fuckin’ thread.”

You obeyed, slipping the dress from your shoulders with just enough tease to make his breathing hitch. Then you sank to your knees, your gaze locked on him the whole time.

You noticed the tent that was now more prominent in his pants, your hand softly massaged his big bulge, your mouth giving little kisses to his covered hardness. He grunted as you freed his cock from the strain of his trousers. Thick, veined, tip flushed red and beautiful like you remember. You wrapped your hand around him, stroking slowly, the contact between your soft hand and his hot skin made him moan.

“Use that mouth you’ve got, yeah?” he hissed. “Don’t make me wait.”

You licked a slow, filthy stripe from the base, licking every inch, tracing the vein with your tongue, all the way up to the tip, swirling your tongue around the head, tasting the salty flavor of his pre-cum.

You loved the way his cock twitched in your hand. The way he cursed under his breath when your lips finally wrapped around him and you started sucking, just little sucks on his tip, enough to make any man go crazy.

Alfie cursed violently above you, hips bucking, his hand fisted in your hair, guiding you, pushing you down, encouraging you to take more. And you did, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked him down, your hand stroking what your mouth couldn’t reach.

He moaned quietly. “Oh this mouth… this mouth can make a priest break his vows, it can.”

You were teasing the sensitive underside of his cock with your tongue, popping off with obscene little noises, then diving back down even deeper.

The sounds were obscene as they filled the room. Your spit dripped from your chin, your eyes teary as you looked up at him, letting him see what he was doing to you. His hips jerked despite himself, but you let him, taking it, loving the way he lost control for you and used your mouth how he pleased.

“Christ, treacle,” he groaned, staring down at the way his cock disappeared inside your mouth with each suck. “Yeah, suck it like that… like the little fuckin’ Shelby whore you are… You love it, don’t you?”

His body stiffened, and his breath got heavier. You pulled off with a filthy pop. “You gonna cum already?”

His voice was gravel. “Keep talkin’ like that, and I’ll shove it down your throat.”

Your lips parted, eyes shining bright. “Please do.”

He yanked your head forward, burying himself deep down your throat until your nose pressed against his groin and his tip hit the back of your throat. You gagged around him, and he held you there, letting you feel the full weight of him, letting you choke on it.

Finally, he let you go, pulling your head back, you were a mess, drool spilling down your chin and tears down your cheeks.

“Get up here,” he ordered, already pulling you into his lap.

You straddled him without hesitation. His hand slipped between your legs, and you gasped, biting your lip when his fingers found the wet mess clinging between your thighs.

“Jesus fuck, woman,” he growled. “You’re this fuckin’ wet just from suckin’ my cock? You filthy little thing…”

His fingers played lazily with your folds to tease you, like he just wanted to feel what he’d done to you. Thick and calloused fingers circled your clit, and your hips jerked, he was grinding his heavy cock against you, as his hand kept working your soaked center.

A loud cry escaped your throat before you could stop it.

“Tell me whose pussy this is.”

“Yours.”

“Louder.”

“Yours, Alfie—fuck! it’s yours, only yours.”

“Fuck yes, it is,” he grumbled, his thumb applying more pressure and circling fast. “I’m fuckin’ mad for you, yeah? Mad for this cunt. Sweetest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever had. Could die between your legs, swear on me mum.”

Then his fingers slid inside, two thick digits pumping into you slow, making your eyes roll back and your toes curl.

“You feel that?” he murmured, curling those two fingers just right. “This is mine. This perfect little cunt. Soaked for me. Gotta stretch her out real nice, yeah? Treat her real fuckin’ good so she can take my cock.”

You arched your back and rode his fingers like your life depended on it, seeking more friction. His thumb never left your clit, and those fingers inside you kept hitting you, curling until they found the right angle, hitting your g-spot with devastating precision. You clung to him, hands on his shoulders, head thrown back as he fucked up into you with his fingers, slow and rough strokes that had you sobbing.

“Cum on my fingers, show me how much you like them.” He knew your body better than you did, and he noticed how close you were.

You shattered, and you felt your orgasm hitting you hard, gasping, wrecking you, making your entire body shake, clenching your walls around his fingers. He kept fingering you through it, relentless and merciless.

He finally pulled them out slowly, strings of thick wetness clinging between his fingers, then he pushed them to your lips.

“Taste yourself.”

You did, opening your mouth and sucking his fingers clean. You tasted a little sweet… no wonder he was obsessed.

“Look at you… Fuckin’ masterpiece, you are. All stretched out and drippin’ like honey. I’d carve you into marble if I could stop shaggin’ you long enough to do it.”

Meanwhile, his cock still stood hard and aching, pressed against your belly and begging for release.

“Come on,” he growled. “Sit that pretty fuckin’ cunt down on my cock and ride it.”

He didn’t wait for you to move, he lifted you up by your hips like you were a little rag doll, lined himself up, and slammed you down without hesitation. You gasped, back arching as he filled you entirely, painfully, perfectly.

You took all of him, bottoming out with a slow grind of your hips that had Alfie’s head falling back, and his eyes rolling shut. You grabbed his shoulders, nails digging on his skin until they drew out blood. Your hips rolling over him deliberately slow, enjoying the feeling of fullness he gave you.

But he didn’t give you time to adjust, he never did. Alfie fucked like a man with a deadline, like the world might end in minutes and he wanted to die buried in you.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he hissed, grabbing your hips and moving you, dragging you up and down his cock, using your body like it was made for him, like he owned it, setting up the rhythm and making you bounce on him just how he liked it. “So warm, so tight… how the fuck does it keep gettin’ better every time?”

“Oh, fuck, Alfie!” you screamed, your mind going blank from the overwhelming stretch of him as he pushed so deep inside you, you could feel every inch, every vein, every brush of his tip against your cervix.

“This cunt’s never gettin’ used to it, is it?” he snarled, dragging his hands all over your ass, gripping it roughly as he helped you move. “Still squeezin’ me like you tryin’ to keep me inside you forever.”

His cock twitched inside you, thick and throbbing, dragging dirty little whimpers out of you every time your pussy swallowed him.

“You like me inside you, yeah?” he rasped. “Like feelin’ me stuff this greedy little pussy full?”

“Yes, Alfie. Yes,” you moaned. “I love it… so much… Feels so good… Best I’ve ever had…”

“Yeah?” His hand wrapped around your throat. “You love this, my cock deep in this needy fucking cunt.”

“God, yes… Alfie, please—” You weren’t sure if you were begging for him to stop, or to fuck you harder.

He slapped your ass. “Beg for it.”

“Please,” you whimpered. “Need you to fuck me harder… Alfie, please…”

He snarked and he smacked your ass again, hard enough to leave the red print of his hand. He began to buckle up his hips to meet the roll of your hips, thrusting up hard into you, chasing the slick, filthy drag of him inside you, that thick stretch that had you gasping.

“That’s it, treacle, ride that fat fuckin’ cock like you mean it,” he growled, palming your tits with his hands as they bounced, squeezing and kneading them. “I’m so close. Wanna feel you milkin’ me cock dry.”

A few more raw and brutal thrusts, and he felt that heat coiling tight in his belly. Alfie swore violently, grabbing your hips and slamming up into you twice more before he spilled inside you, buried deep, cumming hard.

“Shit… came so fuckin’ hard I saw colors, I saw stars—I saw my own fuckin’ funeral, and I was smilin’ in my coffin,” he muttered, and you didn’t know how he had energy left to say all those things.

His cum dripped out of you, messy and thick, leaking down his cock and onto his trousers, that were barely tugged down past his cock.

“Look at the mess you’re makin’,” he breathed. “Painted you with my cum so pretty I reckon Michelangelo would be jealous. Fuckin’ glorious sight. Fuckin’ Biblical.”

“Filthy bastard.”

He chuckled and continued mumbling for himself under his breath. “Oh you wrecked me. Turned me into a bloody devotee of you. What kind of woman does that, eh? A fuckin’ sorceress, that’s what you are. You could ask me to start a war and I’d ask how many bodies you want.”

You shook your head with amusement. “You ready to talk business now?” you asked him, breathing ragged, your body trembling, caressing his hair tenderly with your fingers.

He smiled against your shoulder. “Not a bloody chance,” he chuckled again. “You think I’m gonna let you walk ‘round with this cunt drippin’ like that, eh? What, temptin’ men to meet their own fuckin’ death? No, treacle, now I’m gonna fuck that cum right back into your pretty little pussy. Then… maybe we’ll talk business.”

NEXT PART HERE

Your brother trusted you. For some reason, you were good with numbers, that was a fact. And you were good with people, probably because they all saw you as the innocent and youngest Shelby sister, but you were smarter than any man in the room. They underestimated you. That’s why you got sent to Camden Town almost every week. That, and because Alfie Solomons was utterly obsessed with you. Tommy found it convenient, really, since it always gave you the upper hand in every deal. Alfie simply couldn’t resist you.

You never thought anything of it. Yes, Alfie flirted with you, crude and blunt, filthy sometimes, but you were sure of his intentions. Just a game to piss your brother off, so you dismissed his banter.

The morning air was thick in Camden. It always was. You walked through the bakery like you owned the place, weaving through the towering barrels and busy working men until you reached his office. You didn’t even get a chance to knock, his voice came through the door, rough and immediate.

“Get in.”

You pushed the door open and stepped inside. The air reeked of rum and cigars. He was there, of course, seated at his desk, leaning back in the chair, sleeves rolled up, revealing strong, tattooed forearms, his beard was thick and wild as ever.

“Well, bloody hell. The Shelbys sent me an angel today, eh?”

“You knew it was me coming, Alfie.”

“That I did. Every week, like a sharp clock, you are,” he grinned. “Lookin’ like fuckin’ sin, you do.”

You sighed, you knew all his lines by now, he’d used them a thousand times already.

“Let’s talk business, yeah?”

“What? No hello? No how’ve you been, Alfie? No I’ve missed seeing your face?” He twitched his jaw when you stayed silent, completely ignoring his advances once again.

You tried your best to talk numbers, to finalize the new distribution routes, but it was almost impossible with the way his eyes were trailing lazily over your body, like he was undressing you with every glance.

“Are you even listening to what I’m saying?” You were pissed now.

“Well, forgive me, yeah? It’s fuckin’ hard to focus when you’re lookin’ like that.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, smirking. “You do it on purpose, you do. That dress, that mouth painted red like bloody temptation itself.”

“This isn’t a bloody game, Alfie.” You warned him, trying to stay cool and composed even while he was practically eye-fucking you across the desk.

“Course it’s not a fuckin’ game,” he said, his voice a los whisper . “I want you. And yeah, yeah, before you say it again, I know you’re Tommy’s sister. I don’t give a fuck whose sister you are, right?”

“You’re crossing the line. Stop it.” You were trying hard not to flinch, not to blush. Trying to seem unimpressed.

“Oh, am I crossing the line?” His eyes dropped to your legs. “I’ll stop it when you stop sittin’ there with those… those fuckin’ legs crossed tighter than a nun. Pressing your thighs together since the moment you got here. Probably the same way you press them every night thinkin’ of my mouth.”

He smirked, proud of the reaction he managed to pull from you. He had you now. He bloody well did. And it pissed you off that he was so damn observant, that he noticed everything.

“Fuck you.”

“God, please.”

Your cheeks burned with anger, yes, but with something deeper than that. Something dangerous… Something like desire.

“You’ve mistaken my tolerance for interest, Alfie. If you want to keep doing business with the Shelbys, then you fucking behave,” you hissed.

“Business?” he scoffed. “Treacle, the only thing I’m gettin’ from business with the Shelbys is fuckin’ blue balls. Havin’ to stare at you every fuckin’ week without being able to touch you the way I want.”

“Are you done? Done saying all the… filth that’s inside your mind? You’re a pig.”

“Done? I’m nowhere near done.” He leaned back, eyes gleaming. “Next time you come here, I’ll tell you what I want to do to you, page by page, like a fuckin’ scripture.”

You stood up, turned away without another word, and walked straight out of his office. Just like that. Gone. Leaving Alfie cursing under his breath.

The truth is, you should’ve told Tommy. Should’ve told him that Alfie crossed a line, so he’d send someone else, but you didn’t. No matter how hard you tried to stay away from that man, there was an invisible string pulling you toward him.

You wore black that day. High-necked, buttoned all the way up, but when you walked into Alfie’s office, the first thing you saw was him waiting for you with a little old leather notebook in his hands.

He didn’t say hello, didn’t greet you like most days. He just opened the notebook and looked at you.

“I made you a promise, right? And I’m a man of my word.” He tapped the cover with a grin. “Fuckin’ poetry I wrote for you.”

“You think I came here to hear your filth?” you said, sitting across from him, arms and legs crossed.

He ignored you completely, cleared his throat, adjusted his glasses and began to read from the first page.

“You come here all proper, all buttoned up, pretendin’ to be holy. But I’d get you against my desk anyway, with my hand under your tight little skirt, as you moan my name like a fuckin’ prayer.”

He turned the page.

“You’d tell me to fuck off, ’cause you love to pretend you don’t want me. But when I feel your thighs squeeze around my fingers, I know it’s all lies.”

Another page turned.

“I’d put my mouth between your legs, eat you until you can’t remember your fuckin’ name. Make you scream so loud your brother in Small Heath would hear you.”

“And I’d fuck you from behind, right on this desk we’ve signed a hundred papers on. You’d beg me not stop. In fact, you’d beg me to go harder, ’cause—”

“Stop.” You cut him off. Your voice soft, but sharp.

You felt the heat pooling low in your stomach, felt your undergarments dampen, but you didn’t show it. You stood up, hands trembling, legs unsteady.

“You think you’re clever? Think I’ll melt because you wrote all your filth in a book like some fucked-up priest?”

He stood too, walking around the desk toward you with slow, measured steps. “Maybe. Tell me… is it workin’?”

“You should be locked up.” You should’ve slapped him, should’ve run, but you didn’t. You stayed and you listened to every word.

“Mmhm,” he whispered, closing in. “But I’d find a way out. Just to find you.”

He was towering over you now, so close you could smell him, like cigars and rum and sin.

“I should take what I want right now,” he murmured roughly. “Should bend you over my desk and do every fuckin’ thing I wrote in that notebook. Everything you’ve been denyin’ me.”

Your knees buckled and your breath hitched.

“But I won’t, treacle. And you wanna know why?” His voice dropped to a growl. “Because when I do, yeah? you won’t be walkin’ straight for a fuckin’ week, and it’s gonna be your choice.”

“My choice?” you whispered, your voice barely there, feeling his eyes devour you.

“Yours. You’ll come back here tomorrow. Not for business. Not like a Shelby. You come back for me.”

Somehow, your legs carried you out of his office, out of the distillery, back to the car waiting for you outside.

The moment you stepped inside Alfie’s distillery the next day, you knew it… this would be the last time you ever walked out of here untouched.

You made your way into his office, and like always, he was already expecting you. Leaning back against his desk, arms folded, eyes on you like he’d been waiting all fucking day. And damn it, he looked as irresistible as ever.

“You’re late,” he said.

You checked your watch. “No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you’re about twenty fuckin’ meetings late for what I really want.” His voice was low and husky. “Lock the door.”

You obeyed without thinking, as you stepped closer, his thumb grazed your throat, his rough, calloused fingers were surprisingly gentle.

“You want to hear it again? Page by page? ’Cause I’ve written a thousand more.”

“No,” you breathed, “I want you to show me.”

He groaned, and that was it, restraint fully vanished. He grabbed you and crushed his mouth against yours, desperate, hungry, all tongue and teeth as he yanked your head back and devoured you like a man starving for something only you could give, with the need to own you.

You moaned when he shoved you against the desk, one hand on your throat, holding, not squeezing, while the other dragged your dress up.

No knickers. He swore. “Fucking hell… You woman… you’re tryin’ to kill me, are you?”

Before you could reply, his hand was already between your thighs, feeling the heat, the wetness.

“Oh, you’re so ready for me, ain’t you? Fuckin’ drippin’ on my fingers.” He growled, and then dropped to his knees, right there on his office floor, because there was only one reason Alfie Solomons got on his knees, and that was to eat cunt.

“Alfie—” you began.

“Shut up. Let me read my scripture,” he rasped. Then his mouth was on you with no patience, and no mercy.

His thick beard scratched the inside of your thighs, but all you could feel was the way his tongue worked you open. Lazy circles over your clit turned into relentless strokes as he devoured you like you were his first hot meal after the war.

He pulled back for a second, just to look at you.

“Tastes fuckin’ divine.” He gave one long, filthy lick. “Like fuckin’ salvation.”

“Oh God—God—” you whimpered.

“No, treacle, the Lord’s got nothin’ to do with it. This is all me, so say my fucking name.”

“Alfie… Oh, Alfie…” you moaned, hands buried in his hair, grinding shamelessly against his mouth. He latched on your cunt harder, tongue ruthless going through your slick folds, sucking your clit in the right way, fingers gripping your thighs to keep you from flying apart.

And then… you broke. You came in seconds. Your whole body shook, and you would’ve collapsed on the floor if it weren’t for his strong arms holding you up. He stood, his beard glistening, soaked in your fluids. Eyes dark as the night, wild. He didn’t wait a second, his hands were already unbuckling his belt.

“You ready for page two?” he growled. “’Cause I’m still fuckin’ hard. And tired of waitin’.”

You nodded, It was all you could do, you were speechless, breathless. He grabbed your body forcefully, turned you around, and bent you over his desk, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades, pinning you down like he’d envisioned a thousand times.

He spit into his hand, stroked himself rough and fast, like the world was about to end. And then… He slammed into you.

You screamed his name, gripping the desk so hard your knuckles went white. He was huge, and if that wasn’t enough, he was brutal with his unforgiving thrusts that had you seeing stars and the whole fucking galaxy. He pounded into you so hard you didn’t know if he loved you or hated you, hands bruising your hips, balls slamming against your ass over and over.

“Fuck—fuckin’—” he choked out, and you realized that this was the first time you’ve ever seen Alfie Solomons struggle to find words. “You tryin’ to kill me? Squeezin’ my cock like that with this tight little cunt.” He smacked your ass hard.

All you could do was whimper, pathetic little whimpers that came out of your mouth as he continued to dive into you. The room was full of it, from the wet slap of skin against skin, to the creak of the desk under your body, your muffled cries, his snarling breath mixed with all the filthy words that came out of his mouth.

“Custom-fuckin’-made for my cock, you were.”

“You feel so good… so wet and hot and tight for me.”

“Look at you, listen to you, moaning like a fuckin’ whore for me.”

He was feral for you, he had turned into a beast like never before, because even if he had his fair share of women in the past, no woman had ever made him feel like this, not a single one of them had ever felt as good as you did right now, It was all he had ever dreamed of, and more.

And you were taking it, it was all you could do, cause you were built for this. No one had ever fucked you like a real man should, no, that was something only Alfie could. That sharp sting built in your belly until it snapped, and you came again, harder this time, clenching so tight around his cock he cursed in Yiddish. You didn’t know what he said, but the way he said it made your whole body throb.

“I’m gonna fill you up… so bad it’s gonna fuckin’ drip out of that pretty pussy all over your thighs yeah? You want that?”

“Yes… please, Alfie… fill me up.”

He pulled your hair back, arched your back against his chest, and fucked into you harder. Once. Twice. And on the third thrust he buried himself deeper and he came with a guttural growl, spilling himself inside you as he moaned your name into your shoulder.

He stayed there inside you, holding you close, his lips at your throat, whispering things that made you melt, and kissing your shoulder softly, as if trying to comfort after he was the one to wreck you

When he finally pulled out, you felt it… his cum, mixed with your juices, dripping down your thighs. He shoved it all back inside with two fingers, stuffing you full of him again.

“Tell me you’ll come back next week, yeah?” His voice was oddly soft now.

You barely managed a whisper. “Try not to go mad until you see me again.”

He smiled against your skin. “Now that, treacle… that’s a promise I can’t make.”

NEXT PART HERE

The cold air filtered through the open windows of the Solomons’ home. The moonlight painted the room in hues of pale blue, casting long shadows over the heavy wooden furniture and the worn rug underfoot.

Alfie trudged into the sitting room, his broad shoulders seemed to sag slightly, the day’s weight visible in the furrow of his brow. But you noticed something else too, the way his hands flexed at his sides, the subtle shift in his stance. He was uncomfortable, you could see it clear as the day, and you could also see the irritated skin on his neck, raw and red, flaking with scales that trailed down along his flesh.

“Let me guess,” you began, tilting your head to appraise him. “It’s acting up again.”

He stopped short, his face an unreadable mask. “Dunno what you’re on about, woman.” His voice was gruff and dismissive. “I’m bloody fine, ain’t I?”

“Alfred Solomons,” you said, standing to meet him, hands on your hips. “You’ve been scratching yourself like a dog with fleas for days. Let me see.”

“Look,” he began, throwing up his hands defensively, “this ain’t a bloody—what’s the word—interrogation, yeah? Just got home, haven’t I? Thought we’d sit down, have a nice supper, maybe a drop o’ rum after, yeah? Not get a bloody inquisition.”

“Come on, Alfie,” you said gently, breaking the silence. “Sit down.”

He turned to look at you, his brows furrowing. “I told ya, love, it’s nothin’. Just a bit o’ skin, right? Nothin’ to fuss over. I’ve lived with it this long, ain’t I?”

You sighed, folding your arms across your chest. “Yes, you have, and you’ve done a fine job of ignoring it, but it’s bothering you, I can see that. Now, sit down and let me help.”

Alfie’s lips pressed into a firm line, his pride warring with the truth of your words. You’d seen him win fights with men twice his size, talk his way out of impossible situations, but here he was, hesitating like a child caught misbehaving. It was almost endearing if you ignored the fact that he was internally suffering.

Alfie stared at you, his jaw twitching as he weighed his options, he could refuse—he was, after all, Alfie Solomons, a man who answered to no one— but there was only one person who always made Alfie give in, and that was you, his wife. With a grumble under his breath, he lowered himself onto the armchair, sprawling out like a man whose kingdom had just fallen.

“Woman, you’re bloody relentless,” he muttered under his breath, the way he said it lacked any real heat; it was more a gruff acknowledgment of defeat.

“Take off your shirt,” you said softly.

Alfie cocked his head, as a smirk began to slowly form on his lips.

“Right, well, love, if you fancied seein’ me bollock naked, yeah? You could’ve just said so, straight up. Saved us all the fuckin’ theatrics. I’d have you up against that fuckin’ wall by now, makin’ a goddamn mess of things.”

You didn’t even blink, you knew how Alfie’s defense mechanism had always been humor, he’d crack a joke to avoid taking things too seriously. But you knew that behind every laugh, every sarcastic remark, there was a man scared to take a hit to his pride by asking for help. After all, he was forced to carry every burden on his own all his life, that until he met you.

“I’m serious, Alfie.” Voice flat, no smile this time. “Take the shirt off.”

Alfie huffed, his fingers working at the buttons of his shirt with deliberate slowness. “You’d think I was some feeble old man the way you’re carryin’ on,” he grumbled. “I don’t need lookin’ after, love. I’m a bloody force of nature, yeah?”

“Yes, you’re a force of nature,” you agreed with a smile, “but even storms need a bit of care sometimes.”

His shoulders stiffened, but he said nothing, his shirt finally coming off and landing in a crumpled heap beside him. You bit your lip as your eyes roamed over his body, the patches of red, inflamed skin were stark against his otherwise light complexion. Some areas were cracked and dry, while others looked painfully raw.

“Alfie,” you murmured, your voice tinged with concern. “It’s worse than last time.”

“Don’t,” he cut in sharply, his tone rough. “Don’t you bloody start, right? I know what it looks like. Just a bit of dry skin, that’s all.”

You leaned in, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “I’m not starting anything. I just want to help. Dry skin doesn’t look like this.”

He relaxed under your touch, though he still looked straight ahead, his jaw set stubbornly. “Fine, then. Do your worst.”

You knelt in front of him, settling between his legs as he sat back in the worn armchair, the lamplight cast a soft glow over his battered chest, the heat radiating from his skin palpable before you even touched him. He’d ignored it, neglected it for so long that it was the worst you’d ever seen it, and it must be hurting him so much, those angry red patches that bloomed across his torso and shoulders, the edges raw with peeling skin, irritated and roughened by days of stubbornness.

Your fingers moved carefully, barely grazing his side at first, his muscles tensed beneath the contact, a knee-jerk flinch more from instinct than actual pain, as if he was used to bracing for something harsher.

“Not so bad, you said?” you teased, glancing up at him.

He grunted. “I’ve had worse.”

“That why you haven’t even taken your shirt off when we fuck?” you asked, eyes locked on him. “’Cause you didn’t want me to see how bad it got?”

There was a pause, a flicker behind his eyes, something he tried to smother with a scoff. You knew you’d hit a sensitive topic by saying that.

“Well, aren’t you a fuckin’ detective now, eh? Bloody Sherlock Holmes,” he let out a dry, sharp laugh. “Didn’t think you needed to see it. S’not pretty. Nothin’ romantic about it.”

"You shouldn’t feel insecure about it," you said.

"Pfff, insecure? Bollocks, that is," he scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Men like me—we don't do insecure, right? That's for… for poets and posh lads with too much time on their hands."

But you saw the truth behind his eyes, that split-second crack in the armor, Alfie would never admit to feeling insecure about the way he looked, not even to you, his biggest confidant. And so you decided not to push the subject, you knew better than to fight a war you couldn’t win with words, besides, you had better ways of proving how handsome he was to you, like worshipping him with your mouth, or cunt.

“It must be driving you mad.”

He shrugged, his lips twitching into a semblance of a smirk. “Got more important things to worry about than a bit o’ itching.”

But you weren’t fooled, beneath his bravado, you could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers twitched as though resisting the urge to scratch.

“Stay still,” you instructed, scooping a dollop of ointment onto your fingers.

He flinched as you began to apply the salve, his usual boldness faltering. “Bloody cold, that is,” he muttered.

“It’s supposed to be soothing,” you said, your voice low, patient. You leaned in, working the ointment into his skin with slow, deliberate movements.

His skin was hot to the touch, the irritation beneath your fingertips angry and inflamed. You moved with care, smoothing the salve in small circles, avoiding the worst of the raw spots. Alfie exhaled through his nose, his body twitching beneath your hands before slowly relaxing, like he couldn’t help but lean into your touch once the sting eased, giving way to relief.

“That stuff smells awful,” he said, wrinkling his nose. There it was that stubbornness again, like accepting help, or letting you soothe the ache, meant weakness. You found it amusing, how in so many ways, this big and dangerous man reminded you of a little boy.

“Doesn’t matter how it smells. It’ll help,” you replied, working your way across his chest, thumbs grazing the curve of his collarbones, tracing along the tender edges with a gentleness that made his throat bob in a tight swallow.

“Still feels like I’m being fuckin’ punished,” he muttered, eyes flicking down to where your hands moved over his ribs.

“You’re not,” you murmured, catching his gaze briefly. “You’re being looked after. Big difference.”

For a moment, the room was silent save for the crackling of the fire. Alfie’s eyes were fixed on a point just above your head, his jaw tight as though willing himself not to react. As you spread the ointment slowly over the worst of the irritation, you felt it happen, the first shift in his breathing, from shallow and tense to something deeper. The slow drop of his shoulders, no longer braced against the tenderness. The subtle release of his clenched fists, his fingers unfurling where they’d been pressed into his thighs.

“You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said quietly, his voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

“Of course I do,” you replied without hesitation. “You’re my husband.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound tinged with disbelief. “Yeah, well. Don’t reckon you signed up for all this, did you? A husband with bad skin and worse manners.”

“Maybe not,” you admitted, smiling up at him. “But I wouldn’t trade you for anything.”

“You’re good at this,” he mumbled after a moment, his voice softer than usual.

“Good at what?”

“Lookin’ after me. Puttin’ up with me. All of it, really.”

He was so stubborn sometimes, too caught up in his own worries to realize that you didn’t do this out of obligation, you did it because you loved him, because giving him this kind of comfort was something you’d gladly offer every single time he needed it.

You paused, your hands stilling for a moment before you resumed. “It’s not putting up with you, Alfie. It’s loving you.”

He turned his head fully this time, his piercing blue eyes meeting yours. For a moment, the vulnerability in his gaze took your breath away. “You’ve got a heart too big for your own good, woman,” he said quietly.

“And you’ve got a heart you try too hard to hide,” you replied, leaning forward to kiss his temple.

He closed his eyes at the touch, letting out a deep breath. “Don’t tell anyone about this, yeah? Got a reputation to maintain.”

“All your secrets are safe with me,” you promised with a smile.

For the next hour, you worked diligently, your fingers gentle as they massaged the ointment into his skin. Alfie, for his part, remained unusually quiet, his usual stream of sharp wit replaced by a rare, unguarded vulnerability.

When you were finished, you sat back on your heels, surveying your work, the redness had diminished slightly, the skin looking less angry.

“There,” you said, capping the tin. “That should help.”

He looked down at his chest, his expression unreadable. Then, without warning, he reached out, his large hand cupping your cheek.

“You’re a good woman,” he said gruffly, his thumb brushing against your skin. “Don’t reckon I tell you that enough.”

“You don’t,” you agreed, leaning into his touch.

He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling. “Yeah, well, don’t let it go to your head, eh?”

The tin of ointment clattered softly against the wood floor as Alfie pulled you up into his lap, the gruff tenderness in his hands making your breath hitch. He didn’t bother with words, not at first, he simply held you there, his rough palms trailing up and down your back, grounding you both in a moment of rare softness.

“Come here, pet,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, a low rumble in the space between you.

You settled on top of him, your knees bracketing his thighs. His beard scratched softly against your cheek as he pressed his face into the crook of your neck, breathing in the faint lavender oil you always dabbed behind your ears before bed.

He buried his head against your chest, breathing deep like he needed to memorize the scent of you to survive. He made a sound low in his throat, something between a sigh and a purr, like a satisfied cat curling up in a patch of sunlight. There were only a handful of moments in his life where Alfie Solomons had let the world slip far enough to be this soft, and all of them had been with you, the only person he trusted enough to see this side of him.

“You smell good,” he said, the words muffled against your skin. Relaxing moments like this always softened the sharp lines of his face, making him look younger, almost boyish. You reached up, brushing your fingers along the edge of his beard, and he sighed, the sound deep and contented.

He shifted beneath you, his hands tightening on your hips as though anchoring himself. “Dunno what I’ve done to deserve you,” he said, the words heavy with sincerity.

“I don’t like when you say that. You’re not bad, Alf” you replied with a small smile. “Under all that grumbling and growling, you’re a good man.”

It was the truth. Yes, maybe he’d done bad things, things he couldn’t forget, things that haunted him every time he looked at his reflection in the mirror. But you saw more, so much more. You saw a man who had raised himself from nothing, who’d survived when the world tried to break him, who’d watched his friends die in trenches and still found the strength to carry on. You saw a man who’d opened his heart to you, who’d bought you your dream house and treated you like a queen in her own palace. Who had only ever been gentle with you, patient, kind, giving, even when he didn’t know how to be those things with himself.

His laugh was soft, almost self-deprecating. “Not sure half the blokes around here would agree with that one, love.”

“Don't care what they think, they're not my husband,” you said simply. “You are.”

That seemed to strike something deep in him. His eyes softened, and his hands moved to cradle your face, his touch reverent. “Yeah,” he murmured, his thumbs brushing over your cheekbones. “I am, ain’t I?”

Before you could reply, he leaned in, his lips finding yours in a kiss that was both gentle and demanding at the same time. He kissed you like a man who knew how fleeting happiness and peace could be, who understood the weight of a moment like this.

The kiss deepened, his hands moving with more urgency now as they traced over your body, making you melt into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, and he groaned low in his throat, the sound sending a shiver down your spine.

“Christ, woman,” he muttered against your lips, his voice thick with need. “You make me feel the same way you did all those years ago.”

You laughed softly, a low, sultry sound that seemed to vibrate right through your chest when he leaned to capture his lips into another kiss. It was still slow, languid, the kind of kiss that made time crawl, your tongues sliding together with unhurried precision. His hands kept wandering, greedy and possessive roaming all over your body, gripping the small of your waist to ground you, kneading the soft flesh of your ass, tracing the dip of your spine, splaying wide across your lower back as if trying to brand you to him.

The hard length of him beneath you was impossible to ignore, thick and insistent against the thin barrier of your underwear, and when you shifted again, rolling your hips slowly, deliberately, dragging your cunt over him with maddening friction, he let out a raw, broken sound that made your core clench.

“Gonna ride you,” you murmured, voice thick with hunger. Alfie was a man who thrived on control, sure, but when it came to you, he had no problem handing over the reins now and then. In fact, he loved it. Watching his missus bounce on top of him, taking every bit of pleasure she deserved? That was a big, fat yes for Alfie.

You grinned at his reaction, emboldened by the crack in his usually composed demeanor, the way his eyes had gone half-lidded, pupils blown wide, jaw tight with restraint. You reached between your bodies to undo the fastening of his trousers, unable to wait one second more than necessary.

He chuckled low and hungry. “Yeah? Right, well—fuckin’ hell, woman—’course you wanna ride it.” He spread his hands, leaned back like he was bartering with God. “I’m all yours, ain’t I? Go on then, fuckin’ take what’s yours. Ruin me proper.”

He watched you, eyes locked on your hands, on how they were working his pants open, making his chest rise and fall with deep, shaky breaths. His hands didn’t stay behind, his rough fingers were roaming over your ribs, up your sides, then down again to knead your thighs, your ass, as if he truly didn’t know where to land next.

“You’re too bloody good at this,” he muttered, voice all hoarse and reverent, like he couldn’t quite believe his luck, how he’d landed such a beautiful woman, convinced her to marry him, and now had her on top of him eager to please him.

"It's the experience, been riding you dumb for ten years," you said with a smirk.

"Mhm," he huffed. "And you get better every fuckin' time, pet."

He loved this, especially on those days when he was bone-tired, when his skin was on fire, his back ached, his knees throbbed, his hips screamed, or the days when he had to deal with “fucking cunts,” as he’d put it. Nothing would make him happier than leaning back, letting go, and having a damn good orgasm by doing absolutely nothing, just watching you take control and do all the work for him.

You’d barely gotten his trousers down before his cock sprang free, slapping against his belly, so thick, so heavy, flushed and glistening at the tip like he’d been waiting all fucking day for this moment. The second your fingers wrapped around him, firm and instinctive, he gasped and his hips jerked like he didn’t give a toss about dignity anymore.

“You’re too bloody impatient,” you shot back with a teasing smirk, stroking him slowly, twisting your wrist just enough to make him curse under his breath.

You shifted your weight, lining yourself up, your thighs bracketing his hips as you positioned yourself over him. His hands flew to your hips, holding you steady, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, as the head of his cock brushed against your slick heat. Your breath hitched at the contact, at how easily your soaked folds parted to welcome him, at how swollen and desperate you already were.

“Impatient?” he repeated, his voice low and dangerous. “Love, you’ve been teasin’ me for the past ten minutes. If anyone’s impatient, it’s you.”

You rocked your hips just enough to let his head catch at your entrance, not yet taking him, not fully, just dragging your wetness over him, back and forth, until he growled.

“Fuckin’ hell, woman,” he snapped, his hips jerking up, desperate for more friction, to be buried inside you. “You tryin’ to kill me? Playin' this bloody games with your poor 'ol husband? My fuckin' heart can't take this teasin', It's delicate, It is.”

“But it's too fun to tease you,” you whispered, lowering yourself an inch more. The stretch made you gasp, thick and delicious as always, and you swore you could feel every ridge and every vein of him.

He was watching your face now, intently, like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever seen, but you could see how hard he was fighting the urge to slam up into you. “Don’t fuckin’ tease,” he growled. “Be a good girl and sit on it proper.”

You obliged, how could you not when he talked like that? You sank down in one slow, torturous motion, your walls clenching around him inch by inch. The sound he made was filthy, a half groan half praise, guttural and deep. His head fell back, teeth gritted, chest rising with labored breaths as you took every last inch of him, seated fully, snug and wet around him.

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he rasped. “That’s it. That’s my pet. Perfect fuckin' cunt, still as tight as the day I first filled her up, yeah?"

You moaned, rolling your hips in a slow circle, grinding down with a filthy little twist at the end that made his cock drive right up into that sweet, aching spot inside you. Your breath caught sharp in your throat, eyes going hazy, Alfie groaned low like the wind had been knocked clean out of him, his hands clutched at your hips, guiding you with a kind of reverence, like you were something holy and he was the lucky bastard who got to worship at the altar.

He was trying hard to let you do your thing, let you take your time and move at your own pace, riding him how you wanted, but God, you were squeezing him so tight and dripping all over his cock, that it was almost imppossible to stop himself from thrusting up into you like a beast.

“Look at you,” he whispered, voice frayed and reverent. “Ridin’ me like you were fuckin’ made for it.”

“Maybe I was,” you shot back, voice breathless, your lips brushing his ear as you leaned in.

Alfie met your movements with thrusts of his own, rolling his hips up hard, deep, making you bounce in his lap with every needy grind. His hands gripped your hips, firm but never too harsh, thumbs pressing into your flesh like he needed to memorize every curve, every quake of your body under his. The coarse trail of hair beneath his navel rubbed right up against your clit with every thrust, each drag of his body with that maddening friction made you jolt and shudder.

"Ohh, Alfie... feels so good," you moaned gasping into his mouth, clawing at his shoulders like you couldn’t get close enough. "Please don't stop, don't stop fucking me like that."

“Not stoppin'. Can’t stop when you’re so bloody perfect,” he rasped, his eyes dropping to where your soaked cunt was swallowing him again and again, wet sounds filling the air with each slap of skin against skin. “Perfect cunt. Perfect tits. Perfect wife.”

His head snapped forward so he could bite at your throat, not hard, just enough to make you whimper. His hands slid up your sides, pushing your slip up with urgency, bunching it around your waist until the fabric was out of his way and he could have a better view of everything, from your body glistening with sweat, your thighs shaking, to the way your soaked pussy kept taking his cock like you needed it.

That was the thing with Alfie, he never knew where the fuck to look, it was all too good. Your supple breasts, so soft and perfect, jiggling with every thrust, just begging to be grabbed. Your face, fuck, your face was so hot, those little pouts you made, the way your eyes fluttered shut when he hit a good spot deep inside you. And the way his thick cock slid in your cunt, coming out so wet and slick, your juices coating his navel and trickling down to coat his balls.

“Jesus Christ, love,” he rasped, voice thick. “You’re grippin’ me so tight—fuckin’ hell…”

You leaned forward, your hands braced against his chest, hair falling around your face as you found the perfect rhythm, grinding down in slow, greedy strokes that made both of you moan. His cock filled you perfectly, thick and hot and stretching you with every thrust of his hips.

Alfie’s attention was drifting, his eyes moved from the place where you two were connected, to the soft bounce of your breasts with every motion, your nipples peeking through the thin, rumpled slip. He licked his lips, rough hands sliding up your waist, over your ribs, until they cupped your breasts and gave them a slow squeeze.

“Look at these fuckin’ things,” he muttered. “Drivin’ me mad, the way they bounce when you ride me like that…”

Then he surged forward, mouth latching onto one of your nipples through the damp fabric, the hot drag of his tongue and the sudden suck of his mouth made you cry out, your hips stuttering as the pleasure hit you like a jolt.

“Alfie—” you gasped, hands flying to his shoulders as he pulled the slip down, baring your chest fully. He didn’t hesitate, he wrapped his mouth around your nipple and sucked hard, filthy sounds filling the air as he groaned against your skin. His tongue flicked over the stiff peak, then he moved to the other breast, biting down just enough to make your back arch.

"I'd kill a man for your left tit," he mumbled, voice muffled, barely undertandable with his mouth still sucking around your nipple. "And then I'd kill another for the right one. Fuckin' perfect things."

“Shit—Alfie—Feels... so good… so full.” you moaned, grinding harder now, the added stimulation on your nipples sending you spiraling, and if that wasn’t good enough, you felt your clit catching on his pelvis with every thrust down, making your walls clench even tighter around him.

“Fuckin’ ride it—show me how needy you are. You like me suckin’ on your tits while you fuck yourself on my cock, don’t you?”

You nodded frantically, you were so drunk in the pleasure he was giving you that it was impossible to articulate words, you just let that intense pleasure ripple through you.

“You are mine. Mine, yeah? All fuckin’ mine.”

“Yours,” you choked out, your voice breaking on a moan as he angled his hips just right, hitting that spot inside you so perfectly that your body jolted, eyes fluttering shut, vision blurring with pleasure.

“Good girl,” he murmured. “That’s my good wife. So sweet and tight for me, drippin’ on me lap.”

The praise hit you like a shockwave, heat coiling in your gut, your body was desperately trying to chase your high. Just like as if he’d read your mind, sensing what you needed, his hands gripped your hips with force, lifting you up and slamming you down on his cock over and over again at the same time he thrusted up to meet you with rough, almost desperate violence. You weren't riding him anymore, he was fucking you through it.

“That’s it, love,” he muttered, his voice rough and unraveling. “Take it, my filthy little missus. Show me how good I make you feel. Ride it like you mean it.”

You cried out, the pleasure now becoming unbearable, forcing your body to clench hard around him, making your thighs tremble, the slick sound of your cunt milking him was louder now, filthier, wetter with every thrust. His cock throbbed inside you, thick and hot and perfectly angled to build your orgasm.

“Cum for your husband. Let me know I’m the only bastard who can make you feel like this. Just me. Just your fuckin' man.”

You snapped. Your head fell back, your mouth dropped open in a cry of pure ecstasy as you came hard. Your cunt spasmed around him, soaking him in a rush that made him curse and grip you tighter.

“Fuckin’ hell, that’s it, pet,” he groaned, voice strangled. “Milk it. Milk my cock just like that. Gonna leave that pretty cunt drippin’ my cum for for weeks. Fuckin’ ruined.”

Alfie followed you just a couple of thrusts later, his eyes squeezing shut as his hips jerked up one last time, burying himself as deep as he could go. He came with a low, shuddering groan, his cock pulsing inside you, flooding you with his cum as he clutched you tight, holding you in place like he couldn’t bear the thought of you ever pulling away.

You collapsed onto his chest, both of you panting, bodies slick with sweat and sex, his release leaking out of you slowly as his softening cock stayed inside. His hand stroked lazily up and down your back, while his lips pressed a kiss to your temple.

“Ahhh—fuckin’ hell, yeah—that’s what a man needs, innit?” he groaned, voice thick and slurred like he was drunk on you. “To come home after a long day of dealin’ with cunts and madness, yeah, and have his sweet little wife sittin' pretty on his cock—riding him like it’s her god-given job.”

"Glad to hear I'm good at my job," you teased, voice raspy, still trying to catch your breath.

"Ohhh, you're the fuckin' best, pet. Not one fuckin' soul like you," he muttered, still breathless. "God broke the mould when he made you, thank fuckin' Christ he did."

His heartbeat thudded beneath your ear, slowing little by little as his breathing evened out. For a long moment, there was just the sound of your shared breaths, the creak of the armchair as he adjusted to hold you closer, with his nose buried in your hair.

Then, softly, quieter than you were used to hearing him, he spoke.

“Thanks for takin' care of me,” he said, a little raw. “Proper, like no one ever has. Not just the shaggin’, love, though—don’t get me wrong, yeah, that’s… exceptional.” He smirked faintly, and you laughed. “But it’s the other things. All the little things you do for me.”

Your throat tightened as he continued, getting to hear this sweet side of him was something you’d never get used to, not because it was rare, he gave it to you more often than he probably even realized, but because it always felt like a little secret, meant only for you.

“I’m not easy, right? I know that. I’m rough and moody and loud as hell. And yet you—you’re always there. Calm. Warm. Always fuckin’ takin’ care of me.” He pressed his forehead to yours. “So I just wanted to say thank you. For stayin’ even after all these years. For seein’ the worst of me and lovin’ me anyway.”

You kissed him then, slow and tender, the kind of kiss that spoke louder than words could ever manage, and when you pulled back, your voice was thick with emotion.

“You’re not the worst, Alf. You never were.”

He huffed a soft laugh, pulling you tighter against him. Looking at you with eyes that said “I love you. I’d be lost without you by my side.” You felt it in your chest, in your bones. He made you feel like the most loved woman in the world.

“Well, I’ll tell you what you are,” he murmured. “You’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

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AN: Thank you so much for your request!! You gave me the perfect opportunity to write this cause I’ve actually been thinking for a while about a fic where the reader takes care of Alfie’s sciatica, but I absolutely loved your idea🩷🫶🏻

I hope that you and everyone else enjoyed this. Your support means the world to me!!

One more Alfie fic to go and then I’m officially done with requests heheh😮‍💨

@ficthots

"What the fuck?" You whisper, your breaths becoming more shallow as your heart races. "Even my fans?"

She lets out a long sigh. "We haven't come out with a statement yet, Y/N. They don't know he filmed without your consent and he made it seem like someone hacked into his cloud and leaked it," She tells you pointedly - her and your PR team had been adamant on responding immediately, but you couldn't bring yourself to it. Doing so would've made this real instead of just a nightmare.

"Y/N's right in being hesitant to release a statement of any kind," Matt chimes in. "Anything you say right now can be used against you when we go to court, or worse, open you up to a defamation claim. It's best to leave yourself out of the media when it comes to this to ensure we have as strong a case as possible."

"Thank you, Matt," Pepper utters. "I'll call you and schedule a meeting for us to talk out plans."

He bids you both farewell and leaves the office. With it being just you and Pepper now, you feel safe to be vulnerable, allowing a few tears to fall from your eyes.

"I'm telling you, Y/N," She begins sternly. "That motherfucker will be lucky to get drafted onto the prison basketball team once we're done with him, let alone the fucking NBA. He will not get away with this."

You nod, not able to find your voice. If you could, you'd likely express some gratitude that you have someone as fiercely loyal as Pepper on your side.

"There's... fuck, there's something else I should tell you before you hear it anywhere else," She says in an exhausted tone.

"It can't be worse than this," You mumble dryly.

She winces before saying, "It's... Nick Fury. He's cut you from Grey City."

It stings to hear. This was your chance to break out as a serious actress, to show the world that you're worthy of working with the biggest names in film. Being cast in a Fury film is what most actors can only ever dream of - it was your proudest achievement to date.

All you can do is laugh. "Because of this?" You ask incredulously. "Fuck, what? I've done full-frontal nudity before, what the fuck's the difference?"

"Combined with what happened on The Sip the other week, with your parents... he's very particular about his casting," She tells you.

"Oh, I didn't react well when told I was being surprised with a visit from my abusive parents who I haven't seen in a decade?" You scoff sarcastically.

Pepper throws her head back and stares up at the ceiling. "He doesn't know that. Nobody knows the truth, Y/N. Your truth," She looks back down at you. "And I know it's hard for you to share your trauma with the world, knowing there'll be the bastards who call you a liar, the people who say you deserved it, the sick fucks who get off on it - but the truth will be out there for those who care to hear it. For those who want to be rooting for the right side. Your fans. Your peers."

You take in her words, as hard as they are to hear. "One day, I'll be able to share my story," You say after some deliberation. "But that's not today. I'm not... ready."

"That's okay," She replies. "Your parents are already fading into irrelevance, and as soon as we get Thor in court, we can tell the world what he did."

"I just... I want to go back to the way it was," You mumble, closing your eyes. "Before my parents came back. Before Thor did this." Before you lost Bucky. "I was... I was happy."

Pepper reaches out and takes your hand. "And I promise you, my love, you will be happy again," She assures you. "I will stop at nothing to reduce the people who hurt you down to pulp."

EXCLUSIVE: Y/N AND STEVE ROGERS SHARE A STEAMY KISS OFF-CAMERA - IS HE HER NEXT CONQUEST?

With a disgusted scoff, you scroll past the gossip post. Nothing about the kiss was off-camera, but they of course edited the photo to make it look like an unscripted moment between you and your co-star. Thankfully, you've not been kicked off of Jagged Edges, though you're unsure as to if that's only because filming is already well underway and it would be too costly to recast you.

Three empty margarita cans sit on the coffee table in front of you, and you're holding your fourth. While you want to be able to say you're not thinking about him, that would be a lie. You feel his touch on your skin when you least expect it. Feel his weight on your bed when you're alone. And sometimes, in your darkest moments, you'll hear his voice. His laugh. See the smile he always tried so hard to hide from you. You didn't see enough of his smiles. Didn't get to hear his laugh as often as you would've liked. His absence burns you alive.

Two missed calls from him on Christmas. You wonder what he would've said. Did he see the tape Thor leaked? Would he have blamed you? Shamed you?

"Hello?"

His voice - his real voice - makes your heart skip a beat. You look down at your phone screen again and slap your hand over your mouth when you realize you've just called him back.

"Y/N, are you there?"

Your stomach clenches. You want so badly for him to be here with you.

"Jamie," You can't help but whisper.

"Y/N, I'm here," He replies. "Are you okay?"

Sucking in a gasp, you shake your head. "No. Jamie, I... I miss you." Maybe it's the alcohol, but you don't care how pathetic you sound. "I need you here."

He sighs, his voice low when he replies. "I miss you, too. How are you?"

"Horrible," You admit. "Did you- did you see what Thor did?"

"He... leaked that himself?" Bucky asks you, his tone tightening.

"He's claiming he didn't, but I know it was him. He's mad at me for rejecting him," You say, wiping your wet cheeks. "He- Jamie, I swear, that video was way before you and I ever-"

"I know, baby," He cuts you off, and it makes your heart clench.

"And I didn't know... I didn't know he was filming," You whisper, having no strength to speak any louder. "I would have never let him do that. Ever. He swore to me he wouldn't do that to me... but he did. And he's angry I turned him down so he leaked it for revenge."

Bucky's silent for a few moments. "Just say the word, Y/N. You'll never have to see or hear from him again," He says curtly.

You're taken aback, unsure if you're understanding what he's really saying. "James. What are you talking about?"

"Whatever you need," He says. "If you need him gone-"

"Jamie, no," You cut him off quickly, worried he's about to incriminate himself over the phone. "He- we're gonna take him to court. My lawyer said we have a good chance."

"Alright," Bucky replies. "Okay."

"Jamie, I just... I just want you here," You tell him, feeling a heavy lump in your throat. "I can't stop thinking about you. Even drinking doesn't help me get rid of you. Just makes it worse."

"Are you at home?" He asks you.

"Yeah," You tell him, your stomach flipping at the thought of him being here with you. "Jamie, come over. Please. I- I know you can't... be with me, or whatever, but just... be with me tonight. We don't even have to do anything, we can just... we're still friends, aren't we?"

"I can come over," He tells you. "But I'm still in Napa so I'll be a couple of hours. Is that okay?"

"I don't care how long it takes, just come over," You beg him. "I just wanna see you."

"Okay. I'll get there as soon as I can," He promises. "Just hold on. And stop drinking, alright?"

"Fuck you, James, I'll do what I want," You say with a half-scoff, half-laugh.

"Don't be a dipshit," He grumbles.

"Whatever. I'll see you soon," You say. "Be quick."

"I'll do my best, baby."

Bucky spends the two hour flight on his private jet practically shaking with anticipation to see you. Since he walked out of your door four weeks ago, he hasn't stopped thinking about you. About what he should have said. Should have done.

He's a coward - he knows that much - and he hates himself for it. Hates that he was too weak to drop the narcissism for long enough to let you in. You were right when you called him pretentious. In his attempt to achieve his lifelong dreams of being great, he forgot to be good.

And you deserve for him to be good to you. You deserve it more than anyone else he knows. You have the power to destroy him, but instead, you love him, and he isn't worthy of it. He's selfish, and arrogant, and, worst of all, afraid. Afraid to have weaknesses. You'd be his only one if he was to give in to you, and God, what a weakness you'd be.

Throughout his life, he's met plenty of people who tempted him. Beautiful people, intelligent and unpredictable, ones who stand out from the others. People he could see himself spending a lot of time with, maybe even years. But none cut through to his bone. They entertained him, kept his mind and hands busy, but he could sleep easy knowing they might have been gone the next day. Sure, he liked some of them, maybe even cared for them, but their absence didn't affect him. He didn't even miss the warmth of their bodies.

You haunt him like no ghost ever could. You live within him - at some point, you burrowed down beneath his flesh and bones, latching onto his very soul.

That's what made it easy for him to ditch his family in Napa Valley on New Year's Eve and take his private jet to LA just because you asked him to. But now it's been a full five minutes and you still haven't opened the door.

"Hey, Bucky," You answer the phone sounding more sober than you did two hours ago.

"Hey, I'm here," He tells you. "At the door."

"Oh. Um... I'm not home anymore," You reply sheepishly, and he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as if they anticipate what you're about to say.

"Where are you?" He asks, keeping his voice as calm as possible.

"Bucky, I... I can't. I'm sorry," You whisper.

Frowning, Bucky narrows his eyes. "You can't what?"

"I can't see you right now," You tell him. "I'm sorry, I just can't."

You sound upset and that kills him.

"Please just tell me where you are," He begs you.

"I'm... I'm at Steve's place," You reveal.

"Steve?" Bucky replies incredulously.

"Yes. We're... hanging out," You say lamely, before growing defensive. "I- we're friends, Bucky, so we're hanging out. It's nothing to do with you."

His free hand is balled into a fist. "Right," He utters coolly.

"Goodbye, Bucky," You say before hanging up.

"Why did you lie to him?" Gwen asks you with furrowed brows.

You let out a sigh, feeling sick to your stomach. "I don't know."

But you do know - the reason is staring up at you in your messages.

Carol Danvers

Hope you have a great New Year, Y/N! It was fantastic to work with you. Thanks for doing such a brilliant job with Bucky! :-)

You

Happy New Year to you too!! The pleasure was all mine :)

Carol Danvers

Seriously, if I see you out tonight, I owe you a drink haha!

I'm sorry for all the shit happening right now. Hopefully it all blows over for you soon.

You

I appreciate that Carol thank you <3

Carol Danvers

Maybe Bucky's next big story will take the heat off you!

You

Haha maybe if it includes a sex tape or two

Carol

Not quite. But finally making things official with Natasha will definitely make waves for him!

Meanwhile, Bucky's calling Steve, unable to believe your words.

"Hey, Buck-O!" Steve greets him brightly.

"Hey, pal," Bucky replies curtly.

"It's good to hear from you," Steve says. "How you doing?"

"What are you up to?" Bucky questions.

"Just got back from the gym, about to cook dinner," Steve replies. "How come you're asking?"

Even though he knew you were likely lying about being with Steve, Bucky still feels relief at his words. "So you don't have any plans for tonight?" Bucky asks him.

"Nah, I've got a half marathon at 9am, so no partying for me," Steve informs him.

"Right, right," Bucky says. "Say, uh, you wouldn't happen to know where NBA players spend New Year's, would you?"

There's a slight pause before Steve responds, "Yeah, I might know a spot or two. There a certain player you wanna see?"

"Something like that."

A couple of hours later, it's an hour to midnight, but Bucky's not in a celebrating mood. He's been stopped by multiple people but expertly avoided being dragged into conversation because he has one thing and one thing only on his to-do list for tonight.

He's gonna kill Thor Odinson.

Ever since you told Bucky that Thor had filmed you without your consent and then leaked the tape himself, he can't get the bastard's smug face out of his mind. In this moment, Bucky's career doesn't matter - for the first time since he was 15 years old, he's doing something without caring about the impact it will have on his image. If he never gets another role again for what he's about to do to Thor, it would have been worth it. He has a primal need to stop Thor's heart from beating.

The bastard's standing in the middle of a small crowd of his peers, sipping a beer while telling a likely soulless anecdote. Bucky edges closer, thankful for the dark interior of the bar as he can hide his face from anyone who'll try to talk to him, or worse, get a picture with him. Though it's an exclusive bar, Bucky finds that fellow celebrities and public figures can be just as starstruck as fans, and sometimes even more annoying because they have the extra sense of entitlement.

"We all saw it, man," One of Thor's lackeys says with a snort. "You're one lucky motherfucker."

"Yeah, I wish I could shake the hand of whoever leaked that shit," Another idiot adds in with a sneer.

Bucky's blood boils beneath his skin. He steps forward, gaining the attention of the group. The laughter stops. The smirks drop.

Thor lowers his beer, hiding how taken aback he is with a flat look. "Barnes," He utters simply. "Surprised to see you in a joint like this."

Bucky takes another few steps closer to him, his hands itching to inflict pain. "I'm here to see you," He says simply.

"Me? I'm flattered, mate," Thor says with a chuckle, before sighing. "Listen, I'm sorry you lost your girl. I mean, it's not really like she was ever yours to begin with, anyway."

Bucky's hands clench into fists at his sides.

"Did you see the video? Of course you did," Thor says, getting more smug by the second. "You never got her like that, did you, pretty boy? You've gotta be the only man who's exchanged a few sentences with her that she didn't fuck." Thor's voice lowers as his eyes narrow. "That whore puts out for anyone."

Not even a second goes by from the sentence leaving his mouth to Bucky's fist connecting with his jaw. And immediately, a brawl breaks out between them. This is Bucky's second fight in three months, but Tony was a much weaker opponent than NBA star Thor. Thor gets a few nasty hits in, power behind each one, but Bucky's too angry to fall. He hits back just as hard, fueled by his rage and love - love? Where did that come from?

He's punching Thor in the face, over and over, and all he can think about is how much he loves you. He's fucked. Thor's on the ground with Bucky on top of him, pummeling him. Blood coats his knuckles, a mixture of their's both. Thor's still making noises and jerking with each blow. He's still alive. It's not enough.

Suddenly, security are grabbing Bucky and dragging him away. Hundreds of flashes fill the room, and it dawns on Bucky that what just happened will be tomorrow's headline. And it was more than worth it.

"Have you seen this video?" Gwen asks you with wide eyes and a wider mouth. "Holy. Fucking. Shit."

"What? Another sex tape?" You ask her dryly with your eyes on the coverage of the Times Square Ball Drop on the TV.

"No," Gwen utters, her hand on her chest.

"The fuck you clutching your pearls about?" You ask with a scoff.

"Y/N," She begins carefully as she walks further into the room. "You need to see this."

Just then, you get a phone call from an unknown number. Usually you'd immediately hang it up, but something is drawing you to pick up. "Hello?" You answer it cautiously.

An automated voice replies. "This is a collect call from-"

"Y/N, it's me. Please answer." It's Bucky's voice.

"- an inmate at the LAPD Metropolitan Detention Centre," The automated voice continues. "The charges for this call are $6.95 for the first minute and $1.99 for every minute thereafter for a maximum of three minutes. The call will be monitored and recorded. To accept the charges and the call, please press 1. To refuse, please hang up."

While the robot was explaining, Gwen sat next to you on the couch and began showing you the video she was so shocked by. You press 1 on your phone just as you realize the video is of Bucky beating the shit out of Thor.

"Hello? Y/N, are you there?" Bucky's voice rings out.

"Jamie, what the fuck?" You gasp as you watch the video. "Are you okay?"

"I'm alright," He tells you. "How are you?"

"No, I wasn't asking to be polite," You say curtly. "What is your problem? Why would you get into a fight with Thor?"

"I couldn't - he can't just get away with what he did to you," Bucky says lowly.

"And he won't - that's what I pay my legal team for," You point out.

"I know," He sighs. "But I had to hurt him myself."

Knowing you won't see eye to eye on this, you give up on arguing. Besides, a small, illogical part of you is feeling more attracted to him than ever for what he did. "Are you sure you're okay?" You ask while Gwen leaves the room. "It looks like he got you pretty bad."

"I got him worse," He points out. "Not enough, though."

"Do you need me to do anything?" You ask. "I've had my fair share of mug shots. Need me to bail you out?"

"Nah, my team's on their way," He tells you sheepishly.

"Making them work on New Year's. They must love you," You say sarcastically.

"Once I'm out of here, can I come see you?" Bucky asks you with a tinge of desperation.

Your heart clenches. "Jamie... I don't think that's a good idea," You say, as much as it kills you.

"Why not?" He questions. "I... I don't wanna be without you anymore, Y/N."

It's bittersweet to hear him say that. Up until a couple of hours ago, it was all you wanted - but you've been brought firmly back down to Earth since then. "I spoke to Carol," You reveal. "I know about Natasha."

"That? That's just fucking PR, baby," He tells you. "It's not real."

"You're gonna have to make it look real," You point out. "Look, James, you were right. Neither of us are built for relationships. Our jobs, our lifestyles... we don't get the fairytale ending. We just have to act like we're already living it."

He doesn't respond.

You let out a sigh before noticing the countdown on the TV. Six seconds. "It's almost midnight, Jamie," You tell him. "I... I hope you have a happy new year."

"I love you."

The air is stolen from your lungs and your skin burns. "Jamie... I lo-"

"You have reached the maximum call duration of three minutes. This call will now be disconnected."

if i named each chapter (lowkey wish i did) this one would be called 'buncha phone calls'. or 'a series of unfortunate phone calls'. many options

i no longer have a taglist, follow @kinanabinksupdates and turn on notifications for updates.

anyway i'm in portugal rn on vacation <3 but of course had to come through with another chapter for you (sorry its like. 4hrs later than usual ive been at a karaoke bar)!

I know things are rough rn but truuuuuuust me. when have i ever made the pain not worth it? (besides all my unfinished series...)